<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Some Day One Day by rac06h10ael</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128744">Some Day One Day</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/rac06h10ael/pseuds/rac06h10ael'>rac06h10ael</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Funny How Love Is [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Queen (Band), The Police (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A Little Less Shy John Deacon, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe, Bisexual Brian May, Brian May Is A Dad Now, Cheating, Debbie's Still A Slut, Everyone's Really Hot For Teacher Now That He's A Dad, F/M, Forbidden Love, Freddie And Roger Are Just Good Friends, Gay, Gay Sex, John Definitely Has A Crush On Brian But Also Might Have One On Roger, Lots Of Unnecessary Drama, M/M, Maylor - Freeform, Professors, Roger And Tim Can't Let Go Of The Past, Roger's Still Tim's Bitch But He's Working On It, Still Protective Freddie Mercury, Tim Loves Roger But Doesn't Know How To Show It, Tim's Not Actually A Meanie, Verbal Abuse</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:00:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>120,542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/rac06h10ael/pseuds/rac06h10ael</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Together took us nearly there, the rest may not be sung."</p><p>A year has passed since Roger first burst into Brian's classroom, asking for directions. Now he's but a distant memory, his presence forgotten by all but one—the professor whose life he inexplicably turned upside down. With an ocean between them, their lives went on. Brian's married with a wife and daughter, and Roger's navigating his way through the Big Apple, but have things really changed? Will their feelings survive the distance and bring them back to one another?</p><p>Find out in "Some Day One Day" (previously titled "It's Late"), the sequel to "Funny How Love Is."</p><p>***Shorten, broken-down chapters on Wattpad under the same username***</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brian May/Chrissie Mullen, Brian May/Roger Taylor, John Deacon/Veronica Tetzlaff, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury, Roger Taylor/Cheryl Rixon, Tim Staffell/Roger Taylor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Funny How Love Is [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>90</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nachaelsquared/gifts">nachaelsquared</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian gently laid his daughter down into her crib, holding his breath as a classical record played softly in the background. As Liz’s head fell back against the mattress, he slowly pulled his hands out from underneath her—her little eyes fluttering before slipping shut again. The corner of Brian’s lips perked up triumphantly as he backed away from the crib, tiptoeing towards the door so as to not make another sound, worried it might wake his daughter.</p><p>Once in the hallway, he closed the door behind him, leaving it open just a crack, and retreated downstairs. He was headed towards the kitchen, going to get himself a celebratory drink, when a knock echoed through the house from the foyer. The professor tensed up in preparation of hearing the shrill cries that had rung in the couple’s ears almost every night for weeks, but instead there was silence. He couldn’t even hear the record playing from his daughter’s room.</p><p>With an eyebrow raised in suspicion, he looked back over his shoulder, staring at the entrance he’d walked in and out of countless times before without a second thought, but now he feared there was something terrible awaiting him on the other side. Surely this paranoia was fueled by his lack of sleep—<em>it had to be</em>, he convinced himself—and so when the knock sounded a second time, he rushed to the door and pulled it in. His heart nearly stopped when he saw what—or rather, <em>who</em>—was standing on his steps.</p><p>“Roger?” he whispered—his voice strained as his eyes fell upon his visitor’s unnaturally raised chest, caged behind a white button-down tucked neatly into a black A-line skirt. The sight was admittedly a little shocking, considering he’d never seen him dressed in such a way before in person, but the blonde pigtailed wig situated atop his head and the yellow and purple striped tie pinched underneath his crossed arms seemed familiar. <em>The box, </em>the professor remembered, <em>I saw them in the box Roger took with him when we ran off. They were right on top. </em></p><p>Snapping himself out of the daze he had slipped into, Brian swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and shifted his gaze back up to the blonde’s unrelenting blue eyes. “W-What are you—”</p><p>Roger brought a finger up to the professor’s lips and shushed him—his pursed, pink lips evolving into a seductive smirk that said everything his voice didn’t.</p><p>A dopey smile spread across Brian’s face in response to the younger man’s show of dominance, his excitement intensifying when he was forcefully pushed back into the hallway, silently wondering when Roger became so strong. His eyes remained glued on the dressed-up form striding towards him, the extensive outfit that he typically preferred to be forgotten suddenly seeming incredibly captivating. </p><p>His mind spun in turn with his body, relaxing into the strong hands that tightly gripped his shoulders and pulled his body flush to the shorter man’s. Warm breath tickled the side of Brian’s neck as Roger whispered something in his ear, the actual words getting lost in the confusing and rapidly devolving state of the professor’s mind. His hips instinctively rolled back to meet the obvious bulge lewdly poking through Roger’s skirt, and he quietly whined when the contact immediately left him and was replaced with a knee to the back of his leg. </p><p>Brian got the message, nevertheless, and willed his already wobbly legs to climb up the steps—an easy task in everyday life that seemed near impossible at the moment. The thought of Roger staring him down as a faint pair of footsteps followed his actions proved to be his greatest motivation, the prospect of renewing their forbidden love inside his home with Chrissie making his own tight trousers strain around his crotch.</p><p>He allowed himself to be manhandled once again upon reaching the stop of the stairs, the powerful grip returning to his face when the blonde turned him around to forcefully connect their lips. His hands tangled themselves into Roger’s hair, the shorter strands that had escaped from underneath the wig only spurring him on as they waltzed back into the wall.</p><p>A shameless pout appeared on Brian’s face when Roger pulled back, the button-up he didn’t remember putting on not exactly living up to its name as a finger trailed down his exposed chest and made his already heaving breaths worse. Just before reaching the zipper of Brian’s pants, the wandering hand took a detour to unexpectedly capture Brian’s hand, Roger—now dressed in a much more casual and not feminine outfit—yanking him towards the bedroom with a wicked grin. </p><p>The trip down the hall seemed almost instantaneous, a small factor of the situation that Brian was happy to quickly forget as he shut the door behind them. He also chose to ignore that Chrissie was nowhere to be found in exchange for reveling in the enjoyment of having Roger with him again in such a naughty setting.</p><p>Driven by the sheer thrill of risk, Brian took back some control of their rendezvous and now was the one to push the other around, knocking Roger’s shoulder to make him fall back onto the edge of the mattress with his feet dangling just above the floor. Their lips ferociously met again, and Brian eagerly brought a hand down to tug at the blonde’s clothes as he slotted himself between the latter’s legs, surprised to find there was already nothing there. The obscene press of Roger’s cock against his bare thigh as he continued to tower over the younger man drew Brian’s attention to the fact that he had also mysteriously shed all his garments, but—losing himself in moment—he found it hard to care.</p><p>An unsuccessfully suppressed moan from Roger into his mouth made Brian pull back, his own low groan escaping his lips when he realized he was already inside Roger. The blonde begged him to move and the professor gladly complied, moving his hips as gingerly as he had the first time they slept together. He buried his face in his partner’s neck, busying himself with sucking a mark into the soft skin to cover up any embarrassing moans that threatened to leave his mouth. Brian didn’t complain when Roger nudged his leg, silently requesting that they flip over and somehow effortlessly executing the position change. He let his eyes slip shut as the blonde settled himself in his lap and brought shaking hands up to tightly grip the younger man’s hips. </p><p>Brian was about to teasingly trail a hand toward Roger’s cock when an uncharacteristically high-pitched, girly moan filled his ears. “Professor May,” the clearly female voice sighed as he stuttered his hips, the change still not registering in his mind. A particularly loud squeal made him peek his eyes open to see a young female in Roger’s place. His gaze roamed up and over the bare chest in his face, his heart rate picking up and his eyes almost popping out of his head when he recognized the student bouncing in his lap.</p><p>“<em>Debbie</em>?!” Brian breathed, keeping his hands on her hips even though the new situation felt incredibly wrong. He blinked a few times, hoping this was just some trick his mind was playing on him. </p><p>“My name’s not Debbie,” a deeper voice answered, the different person continuing the motions of his previous partners. Brian rubbed his eyes and gasped to find another student in the place of the last, blushing when he found himself enjoying all these various partner changes. </p><p>“<em>John</em>?!”</p><p>Brian brought his hands up to cover his face and groaned into his palms as the now completely inappropriate scene continued. He hardly registered the newly introduced female voice until a soft hand wrapped around his wrist, making him open his eyes again to see Chrissie underneath him. His confusion came out as a breathy moan, feeling his hips moving into the mother of his child in the same position his hook-up with Roger had started.</p><p>“Everything alright?” she calmly asked, looking bored as her back shifted against the mattress. “You seem distracted.”</p><p>“I-I—"</p><p>“Do you not love me?” the headmistress wondered aloud, a dull, flat quality to the question as she ran her hands over his shoulders, “Don’t you still want to be with me?”</p><p>“W-What?” Brian stuttered—any further questioning cut off by the intense arousal fogging his mind when Chrissie clenched around him. “Fuck, I’m close. I-I need—”</p><p>“You need to get the baby,” she finished for him, the emotionless tone of her voice matching her physical stance.</p><p>“The baby?” Brian repeated, still trying to fruitlessly chase his release.</p><p>“The baby is crying; you need to get up.”</p><p>His head shot back and hit something hard—his surroundings instantly changed. Instead of his and Chrissie’s bedroom, he found himself in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair in the corner of the room while across from him, standing in her crib and clinging to the side, was Liz, her face all red and covered in tears. Brian rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head and looked down at his stained lap, groaning in disappointment and lifting himself up out of the chair that continued to rock in lieu of his presence to cross the room.</p><p>“Hey there,” he cooed, slipping his hands underneath her arms and picking her up, bringing her close to his chest and bouncing on the balls of his feet in an attempt to calm her, “It’s okay. It’s okay. Daddy’s right here. Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay...”</p><p>
  <em>But was it?</em>
</p><p>His tired but wide eyes flickered around the room in a delirious attempt to establish his reality. This had to be it, for there was no way his night could’ve gone the way it was before—no way. It was impossible. Chrissie was sound asleep in the next room over; John and Debbie were either up studying or going round campus in search of a quick romp, and Roger, well, Roger wasn’t even in London anymore.</p><p>“He’s in America,” he whispered to himself like a madman, “He’s...He’s in America.”</p><p>*****</p><p>“Hey, Taylor!” a deep voice shouted across the bar, stopping the blonde from pushing in the door with a piece of paper taped to it that read <strong>Employees Only Please!</strong> Roger closed his eyes and reluctantly turned his head over his shoulder, watching as the big, burly man barreled towards him. That big, burly man was his boss, Jay, and despite his appearance, he was one of the nicest people in New York City. “You forgot your paycheck,” he announced, flashing Roger a crooked smile in the dim lights of the nightclub he worked at. There was something familiar about its atmosphere that drew the blonde in, something reminiscent about home; about a life he couldn’t quite seem to shake. </p><p>Roger smirked and snatched the rectangular slip of paper from his boss. “Thanks, man.” As he looked at the number in the small box, the smile on his face slowly faded. He scratched behind his head and, just before Jay could return to his place behind the bar, called out loud enough to be heard over the blaring music, “Hey, um, this is less than it was last week.”</p><p>“Times are tough, man,” Jay answered as sincerely as he could’ve, shrugging his shoulders and furthering the distance between them, “That’s all I can give you, but next week it’ll be better, I promise!” He spun around and left Roger to sigh in disappointment. Jay said the same thing last week, and the week before that. Each paycheck was getting smaller and smaller, and even though rent was much lower here than in England, it was difficult living on one consistent paycheck plus tips that varied from night to night.</p><p>Roger escaped to the back and gathered his things, passing by Geoff, a fellow bartender who reminded the blonde a lot of himself, struggling to light a joint with shaky hands. He smiled out of pity and gently pried the lighter from his coworker’s hand, holding it for him steadily and igniting the end of the expertly rolled blunt. Geoff’s cracked lips, coated in a thick, smeared layer of dark rouge, curled up into an appreciative grin.</p><p>“You’ve got a real gift there, Rog,” the bartender purred, holding the stick out to Roger for reparation—his smile evolving into a smirk.</p><p>“And what gift is that?” the blonde decided to entertain the pre-departure conversation, snatching the cigarette from his coworker and stealing a drag from it. He coughed a few times, unaccustomed to the blunt’s strength, and handed it back to its owner.</p><p>“The gift of always knowing just when I need you,” he answered slyly, crossing his legs and exposing his thighs more—the leather pencil skirt he slipped into on his break inching up toward his waist.</p><p>Roger paid no attention to the showing skin and tipped his head down to take a humble bow. “Anytime, Geoff.”</p><p>“So, when are you going to bring your pretty little boyfriend in?” his coworker wondered aloud, “We’re all dying to meet him, you know.”</p><p>The blonde’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, but luckily the room’s dim lighting disguised it. He uncomfortably folded his arms over his chest and shrugged his shoulders. “I-I don’t know. He’s really busy.”</p><p>“It’s New York City, hon—we’re <em>all</em> busy. Tell him to get his ass down here one night and have a few drinks with us. I promise we won’t kill him.” Geoff stood up and offered Roger his joint, the blonde shaking his head in polite refusal. With a raised eyebrow, he asserted his adamancy about the blonde accepting his offer, and with a reluctant sigh, Roger took the rolled cigarette into his possession, watching the smile on Geoff’s face grow. “There’s my good boy.” He pinched his cheek. “See the two of you tomorrow?”</p><p>The blonde chuckled as the bartender sauntered away, returning to his shift for the night. “Well, you’ll see me.”</p><p>“Oh, come on, Rog! Share the love!” he whined teasingly, disappearing into the lively nightclub and leaving Roger to slip out the back, shaking his head in disbelief and stealing a quick drag as he walked off.</p><p>The streets of New York at night were a lot different than they were in the mornings, and on the buzz that Roger got from Geoff’s blunt, he glided through them with ease. With his hand shoved in one of his pockets and his jacket thrown over his shoulder, he blended into the night, passing by a line of taxi cars covered in colorful, explicit graffiti and paying no attention to the gangs lurking in the shadows. He learned very quickly that it was better to walk with your head down than to risk making eye contact with an invisible man who wouldn’t hesitate to pull his gun on you just for looking in his direction.</p><p>About ten blocks away from the bar was Roger’s apartment, which wasn’t that much different from his flat in London. Situated on the fourth floor of a five-floor complex, the apartment consisted of three rooms—a common area, a single bedroom, and a bathroom so narrow that your knees touched the tub when you sat down to use the toilet. The living arrangements weren’t ideal, but it was all Roger could afford, considering that Tim wasn’t bringing in much income himself.</p><p>“I just don’t see why we can’t go back to the way things were,” the brunette complained late one night. The pair was cuddled up in bed together, with Roger’s long, blonde hair entangled in Tim’s fingers and the summer’s heat turning their new home into an oven. “There’s a market here for us; I see it every day in Times Square.”</p><p>“I told you I’m not dressing up again,” Roger grumbled, too hot to physically react to his boyfriend’s suggestion.</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“No buts, Tim.” The blonde yawned and curled up beside his boyfriend, murmuring against his bare, sweat-beaded chest, “We left all that behind, remember?”</p><p>He did remember, but he struggled to acclimate to their new life as easily as his boyfriend did—or so Roger made it seem. Despite the two jobs he had, working as bartender at night and a barista during the day, the blonde spent many sleepless nights—early mornings—wondering if he’d made the right decision; wondering where he’d be right now if he’d just stayed in London and allowed Brian to love him like he wanted to.</p><p>It wasn’t that he didn’t love Tim, because he did unconditionally, but the brunette didn’t seem to fit in in the Big Apple. He was just floundering around, losing every oddball job he could snag, and the tension that tore the couple apart in London was tearing them apart again in New York. It felt like they couldn’t escape it, until that night.</p><p>Roger drudged up the stairs and fumbled with his keys, dropping them on the grimy steps and groaning in annoyance. He tucked the blunt inside the corner of his lips and bent down to scoop them up, jumping when a harsh smack landed on his rear. He shot straight up and watched as Tim’s friend—who invited them to New York, owned the apartment complex, and put in a good word for Roger at the nightclub—squeezed by, turning his head over his shoulder and throwing a flirtatious smirk in his direction. The blonde swallowed the lump in his throat, the stairway narrowing and the air growing warm, and lumbered his way to his eerily silent apartment.</p><p>Holding his breath, he lurched into the dark home and set his keys down on the kitchen counter beside the stack of unopened envelopes. "Tim?" he called, tossing his jacket onto their secondhand couch that came with the apartment and taking another drag from the joint that was much shorter than it was before.</p><p>No response.</p><p>“Tim?” he asked again, the worry in his voice becoming more evident as he pushed in the door to their bedroom. Much to his relief, his boyfriend was there, sitting out on the balcony with a thin cloud of smoke rising from in front of his face. "Tim," the blonde repeated, venturing into the room and losing his joint instead of his footing over the phone cord that was masked by the shadows and stretched from their nightstand to where the brunette was situated comfortably. </p><p>“Yeah, just the like, baby,” Tim moaned into the phone, puffing his cigarette like he hadn't just said what he did and rolling his eyes. Of course, facing away from him, Roger couldn’t see that, and therefore drew the conclusion that anyone stumbling upon the scene would.</p><p>“What the fuck is going on here?” Roger snapped, startling the brunette into dropping both the burning white stick and phone.</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ!” he shouted, neglecting to address the blonde's concern and scrambling to retrieve the phone, bringing it back up to his ear and dropping his voice to say, “S-Sorry about that, babe. You just got me so worked up I couldn't hold on any longer.”</p><p>Roger stared at his boyfriend with wide eyes, fuming with rage that went ignored as Tim continued his conversation. With an indignant scoff, the blonde retreated to the bedroom and disconnected the phone from the receiver, the extended cord recoiling and joining Tim out on the balcony. It didn’t take long for the brunette to realize that the line had been cut, tossing the phone rendered useless to the side—the cord stopping it from falling to the street below by catching the thin, black, iron fence that wrapped around the exposed half of the balcony—and looking back at Roger with a scowl.</p><p>“That was very rude of you,” he scolded with a forced calmness. “I was in the middle of a conversation.”</p><p>“Oh, really?” the blonde retorted sarcastically, crossing his arms, “I didn’t notice.”</p><p>Tim pressed his lips together in refrain of saying the first thing that came to his mind, knowing that if he did, the situation would only escalate more. Instead, he settled on sharing a collected, “It’s not what it looks like, Rog.”</p><p>“No, it’s exactly what it fucking looks like, Tim.” The words spilled from his mouth, laced with venom. “I’m not a bloody idiot, and this isn’t the first time I’ve walked in on you—”</p><p>“It’s different this time, babe,” the brunette stole his voice, standing up from his chair and approaching his boyfriend with caution. He dared to place his hands on the blonde’s shoulders and look him in the straight in the eye, leaning in ever so slightly to whisper, “Trust me.”</p><p>“<em>Trust </em>you?” Roger scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief and shoving the brunette away from him, “I haven’t trusted you in years!”</p><p>“Well start trusting me again, okay?” Tim pleaded—something he rarely did—coming back from the blonde’s attack that, before, he would’ve returned without a second thought. Now a changed—or chang<em>ing</em>—man, he refrained from having the last punch, opting instead to announce, “I-I finally found something for me to do here; something you might be able to do too.”</p><p>Roger scoffed. “Tim, I already have a job. <em>Two</em>, actually.”</p><p>“Yeah, but this will get us some extra money to spend on the weekends,” he tried to convince him desperately, “And you can do it after coming home from work, you know, instead of staying up all night staring at the wall, and...and it’s really easy! You’re basically already a pro at it.”</p><p>The blonde’s eyes doubled in size in realization of what Tim was trying to rope him into. “No, Tim, I’m not doing that again! I told you!”</p><p>“You won’t be, I promise!” Tim cried as his boyfriend retreated to their bedroom, rushing after him and spinning the blonde around to face him. “Please. We need the cash.”</p><p>Roger sighed, running a hand through his hair and replying defeatedly, “Fine. What do I have to do?”</p><p>The brunette smirked.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to my sister, Nat, for helping me out with Brian’s dream scene. No one but her would say yes to writing such a trippy idea or go all the way back to June 2019 in their camera roll to find a single picture for my book cover, haha.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just to clear up any and all confusion, I’ve changed the name of this book from "It's Late" to "Some Day One Day." I decided to do this because I feel that the new title better fits the direction I want to take this book in, and I was having some trouble figuring out how the other idea would've played out. Nothing’s changed other than the title, so don’t worry! You haven’t missed anything, haha. Thanks for understanding and enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian stood lifelessly at the coffee machine in the teachers’ lounge, listening intently to the sputters and squeals of the old, worn-down appliance in hopes the monotony would drown out the thoughts that had kept him up all night and continued into his morning. After his dream, and after he calmed Liz down enough to put her back to sleep, he couldn’t stop thinking about what it all meant. He didn’t want to think about it, he really didn’t, but there was just something about what went down and who it went down with that he couldn’t shake.</p><p>“‘Morning, Brian!” Ray greeted cheerfully, slamming a hand down on his colleague’s shoulder and startling him out of his stupor.</p><p>“‘M-Morning, Ray,” he stammered, uncomfortably adjusting the front of his suit jacket and straightening his slouched posture.</p><p>“You sure look awful,” the women’s studies professor observed bluntly, taking a hearty sip of his own coffee and smacking his lips obnoxiously as he formulated his follow up question. “Everything okay at home with the wifey and kid?”</p><p>“Yeah, they’re fine. Everything’s fine,” Brian snapped, not really wanting to have the conversation but knowing his colleague’s persistence had no intention of waning. It was a game of give and take with him, and Brian learned that early on—figuring out a way to entertain Ray’s interrogation without really answering any of his questions, at least not in detail. That seemed impossible now that his life had become a hot topic of conversation among the students and staff. Thankfully, the only mentions of Roger were that they were awfully close, never bringing up the fact that they’d stolen kisses behind closed doors or attempted to run away with one another. All that was overshadowed by his affairs with Chrissie—their situation not the easiest to hide.</p><p>“How old is she now, anyways? The little one.” Another annoying slurp interrupted the modern symphony the coffee machine was composing, and Brian had to gather every bit of strength he could in order to maintain his quickly deteriorating composure.</p><p>“A few months, Ray. She was born in August.” The professor’s body stuttered as he went for his wallet and pulled out a small picture of his baby girl, showing it to his colleague with a crooked grin.</p><p>“Aww, how cute,” he commented, the patronizing tone in his voice failing to go unnoticed as he continued his interrogation by asking, “And when did you and Chrissie get married again? Was it March or was it April that she showed off that ring you got her to everyone?”</p><p>Brian’s narrowed eyes glanced down at the man standing beside him, understanding exactly what his colleague was trying to get at. “March,” he answered flatly, tucking the photograph back in his wallet, “It was March.”</p><p>“Ah, right,” the women’s studies professor sighed, nodding his head, “I remember now, because Timothée came in shortly before that on St. Patrick’s Day and made that huge scene in the courtyard—remember? And then your daughter was born six months later. Now, I’m no biology teacher, but—”</p><p>“You know what?” Brian cut him short, Ray’s lips curving upward into a devious grin, “I think I’m just going to get a coffee from the café. It was nice talking with you, Ray.”</p><p>“It was nice talking with you too, Brian,” he replied as the taller of the two headed for the door. “We should do it more often!” he called out once the professor had disappeared into the corridor, taking a rather victorious sip of his steaming drink as he sat down at one of the tables with a few of his fellow professors.</p><p>As Brian staggered through the halls, the world around him blurred more and more with each step he took. Luckily, he made it to his classroom before losing his balance, falling into his desk and clutching onto it in a desperate attempt to stop his surroundings from spinning. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his rapid breaths, unsuccessfully reaching his desired calm before someone opened his classroom door and peeked their head in.</p><p>“Professor May?”</p><p>Brian turned his head over his shoulder, his eyes falling upon his favorite student. “John,” he greeted as kindly as he could manage, turning to face the awkward, lanky boy—whose hair had been cut over the summer to a much more acceptable length according to his peers—and folding his arms over his chest, “How’s that piece coming along?”</p><p>“Good, good,” he answered, nodding his head but remaining in the doorway as if he was afraid of entering the classroom. “But, erm, I-I came to see you because I saw you in the halls just now, and you didn’t look very good. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”</p><p>Brian blushed at the student’s compassion, a snippet of his dream from the night prior flashing before him, the feeling resurfacing too. He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably, muttering, “That...That’s very nice of you, John. Yes, I’m okay. Thank you for checking in on me.”</p><p>Based on the way he couldn’t fully make eye contact with him, John sensed that his professor wasn’t being entirely honest, and quite frankly didn’t welcome his presence—a reoccurring impression he learned to recognize over the past one and a half semesters. With that in mind, he didn’t feel that it was his place to press the issue further, and so instead, he smiled bashfully and knocked on the threshold. “Anytime, Professor.”</p><p>Brian feigned a grin and watched as the up-and-coming bassist reluctantly slunk back into the hall. He exhaled slowly and dragged himself over to his chair, where he plopped down and stretched his legs out under the desk, bringing his hands up to his face. He sat like that for a little while, losing himself in the silence that surrounded him and would until his first class began to filter in, one by one. That silence didn’t last that long, though, being interrupted by someone else.</p><p>“Hey, Bri.”</p><p>He dragged his hands down his face and turned his head to see his wife standing in the same place John was only minutes ago. She wore a small grin on her lips and a timid blush in her cheeks, waiting to be let in. The professor couldn’t help but mirror her expression and waved her in, the headmistress waltzing in and sitting atop his desk, facing him—but not before giving him a quick peck on the lips; a peck that brought back another glimpse of the dream that plagued his mind. He quickly pulled back and met her concerned gaze.</p><p>“Everything alright?” she asked, using the same words she did when she was underneath him, though this time they carried a greater sense of worry than indifference.</p><p>“Y-Yeah,” he stammered, rubbing his hands down his thighs, “I’m just tired, that’s all.”</p><p>“I know,” Chrissie murmured, bringing her hand to his cheek and swiping her thumb across it lovingly, “Liz has been a handful, hasn’t she?”</p><p>Brian chuckled, for “a handful” was an understatement. “You could say that again.”</p><p>“Why don’t we do something for just the two of us tonight?” the headmistress suggested, twisting a few of his curls around her fingers, “Ask your mum to keep her overnight. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”</p><p>The professor bit his lip, tempted by the idea of all the things they could do without the baby to worry about. The feeling was short-lived, though, quickly replaced with paternal concern. “I-I don’t know, babe. I don’t think I feel comfortable leaving her with Mum overnight just yet. What if something happens?”</p><p>“Nothing’s going to happen, Brian,” she giggled, her bottom lip getting tucked underneath her front teeth as she stared at him with a look in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in almost a year. The red in her cheeks darkened as the professor’s pants grew tight, time and place becoming an afterthought as they unconsciously eliminated the distance separating them—their lips just a breath apart when a high-pitched whistle echoed off the walls of the classroom. Their heads turned in the direction of the door, where Dominique, Anita, and Debbie stood with shining grins plastered on their faces and cigarettes and lollipops pinched between their fingers.</p><p>Chrissie heaved a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “Get to class, girls.”</p><p>“Why don’t <em>you </em>get to class, Headmistress Mullen?” Debbie sneered, earning snickers from the other two girls who either took a drag from their cigarette or moved their textbooks from their side to their chest.</p><p>“Debbie, please,” she muttered, unamused by the deviant’s response, “And Dominique, no smoking inside the school.”</p><p>“Hey, Professor, I heard you’re still giving private lessons,” the second student addressed chimed in, blatantly disregarding the headmistress’s order and blowing a steady stream of smoke out into the corridor—the corner of her lip perking up into a smirk. “Where was ours again? In the janitor’s closet?”</p><p>Brian’s face burned an embarrassed shade of red, his jaw moving like a fish out of water in a pathetic attempt to respond. “I-I don’t know what—”</p><p>“Girls, <em>go!</em>” Chrissie cried, pointing her finger in their direction and sending them off in a fit of giggles. She sighed and adjusted her skirt, looking back down at Brian whose mortified gaze had been averted to the opposite side of the room—his hands clasped in his lap, his legs crossed, and his foot tapping incessantly to its own nervous beat. The headmistress frowned and stood up, planting a gentle kiss on his forehead and whispering, “Ring your mum.”</p><p>“I will,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and leaning forward to bury his face in his arms folded atop his desk. He painfully listened to her footsteps as she left the room, closing the door behind her and abandoning him with the thoughts that screamed louder than before—no sounds to distract him now.</p><p>*****</p><p>Roger pushed his way through the crowded sidewalks of New York City, bumping shoulders with nearly every person he passed and too in his own head to even consider apologizing. All he could think about was the clock he ran against, his late night spent hearing all about this new fad that Tim claimed was “catching on” bleeding into daybreak and making him incredibly late for his morning shift at the coffee shop in the opposite direction of the bar, farther away. The blonde couldn’t blame his boyfriend for his lack of punctuality, though, because he hadn’t shown up on time for a single consecutive shift since he was hired there, and the only reason he still had the job was because the manager had a <em>particular affinity</em> for him.</p><p>“You’re late, Roger,” she muttered as he brushed past her around the counter, so quick that some of the long strands of platinum gold hair draped over her shoulder were picked up in the draft he created. The acknowledgement she expected in return went unsaid as he haphazardly punched his timecard and tossed on the black waist apron his boss required him to wear, bursting back out into the shop and confronting the woman who glared at him out of the corner of her eye. “An entire hour. You’re <em>an entire hour</em> late.”</p><p>The blonde chuckled nervously, slipping his hands into the apron’s pockets. “Yeah, I-I’m sorry about that. I—”</p><p>“Nuh-uh. Sorry’s not gonna cut it this time, blondie.” She straightened her posture, taking her sacred notebook with her, and escaped from behind the counter, continuing with her back to him as she crossed the café, “You know what you have to do.”</p><p>Roger pouted. “Can we please do it tomorrow? Or later this week? I-I’ve got back-to-back shifts today and—”</p><p>“Nope.” She tucked her notebook underneath her arm and snatched up two abandoned coffee mugs from one of the newly available tables by the windows. “You were late, and you’re going to make up for it.”</p><p>“But, Cheryl—”</p><p>“If it bothers you so much, maybe you should try being on time for once,” the stubborn manager with a slight Australian accent sneered, weaving her way through the small but crowded gathering place and into the back.</p><p>“I’m not a Swiss train conductor, you know!” he answered, sighing when his comeback wasn’t reciprocated. The blonde dropped his head back and closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.</p><p>The things Roger did while in New York were no less degrading than what he did in London. It was true that he no longer adorned himself with feminine clothes and makeup, but old habits die hard, and despite the efforts the blonde made to live his life more honorably, the Big Apple couldn’t care less.</p><p>About a month or so after coming over, Roger and Tim’s fridge had been empty for almost a week, and the day their rent was due loomed over their heads like a heavy storm cloud. Tim fell in too deep a slump to find a solution to their problem—not that he ever had before—which left Roger to figure things out himself. With his brand-new job on the line, he asked Cheryl if there was anything he could do to earn some extra cash, extra shifts he could take or extra work he could do while he was there. She came up with the perfect idea—an idea that really only benefitted her instead of the company and kept the blonde employed.</p><p>As he approached his unofficial one-year anniversary at the café, it seemed wild how long their arrangement had been going on, and how uncomfortable he still was with it. Thinking about it, he didn’t know which situation he felt worse walking away from—the appointments with his English clients, dressed as a woman, or his “punishments” from Cheryl, dressed as himself. They weren’t all that different, but the little nuances shamed him enough to keep his deal with his manager a secret. Tim had no clue about how, without it, the blonde would only have his job at the bar, and how—if that were the case—there was a good chance they would be on the streets.</p><p>“Get to work!” she shouted from the back, popping the blonde’s eyes wide open and attracting his attention over his shoulder. His eyebrows furrowed and, like a child, he stuck his tongue out at her in defiance, snatching a rag from the counter and wandering off into the café to wipe down some tables.</p><p>Similar to Brian, Roger’s days seemed to drag, but he marveled at how fast the year had flown by. Only a year ago was he in London, sneaking around with his favorite professor and acting out in ways he knew were wrong but felt so right. Sometimes he would think about him, going so far as to imagine him as the one pounding into him from behind—though the illusion only worked for so long, the blonde knowing that his hands would never be as rough as the ones actually digging into his hips. He best reminisced about the professor when he was alone—door locked, lights low, a cheap bottle of vodka by his feet. Those moments never seemed to last long enough.</p><p>When the end of his shift at the café came about, the blonde tried to slip out unnoticed, hoping he could escape his punishment for being late and get to his other, more tolerable job sooner. However, he didn’t make it more than one step out the door before a strong hand with red lacquered nails dropped on his shoulder.</p><p>“And where do you think you’re going?” his manager’s indistinguishable voice, dropped only a little bit, tickled his ear. Cheryl spared him a response by yanking him towards the bathroom tucked away in the far back, propping herself up on the sink’s countertop, and spreading her legs for him. Roger stood in front of her timidly, as if this was their first time. The undeniably beautiful woman—who any of the other employees would’ve killed to be in such an arrangement with—raised an eyebrow, wordlessly asking her inferior, <em>Well, what are you waiting for?</em></p><p>The blonde heaved a sigh and took a quick glance at himself in the mirror—almost not recognizing the man staring back at him—before dropping to his knees and grabbing onto her thighs. He dove in fearlessly and began his practiced work, Cheryl’s eyes fluttering shut in pure ecstasy and her hands tightly gripping the edges of the countertop to ground her. Within minutes she reached her high, her loud moan reverberating off the graffiti-covered walls as Roger slowly pulled back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—eyes narrowed in resentment.</p><p>“Are we even now?” he asked bitterly.</p><p>His manager looked down at him with an expression of bliss still painted across her face, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Until next time, pretty boy.”</p><p>With cheeks reddened in shame, Roger stood up and burst out of the small, cramped room that felt dirtier each time he was dragged into it. He made sure to slam the door behind him, storming out of the café as though he never intended to come back. He knew he’d be there tomorrow morning, though, right on time, and he knew that the next day, or the day after that, he would be late again. It was routine, and god knew how much Roger liked routines.</p><p>The subway ride usually helped to calm the blonde down on days like this, surveying those around him and wondering what dirty things <em>they</em> did to keep their jobs, but today Roger focused on an amateur guitar player with a mop of curls on their head situated only a few seats away from him, and his mind went somewhere else—a place that pained him more than in between Cheryl’s legs. A sick feeling washed over him and lingered for the rest of the ride that seemed longer than usual, the underground transport system threatening to break down at nearly every stop. After what felt like an eternity, Roger finally reached his destination, and with a stomach full of butterflies, dragged himself to the bar.</p><p>“Whoa, what happened to you?” Geoff asked as the blonde trudged in, plopping down at the table his coworker sat at and burying his head in his arms that folded over one another on the flat surface. “You look like shit.”</p><p>“Thanks, Geoff,” Roger grumbled, his voice muffled by the table.</p><p>“I know just what you need,” the man who had yet to change into his alternative outfit for the night announced, smashing the cigarette he took one last drag from into the dish and lifting the blonde up out of the chair. Roger was so exhausted at that point that he didn’t even put up a fight, allowing his fellow bartender to lead him up the back stairwell and into one of the rooms he’d never been in before. In fact, Roger had never even been to the second floor—knowing what went on up there and avoiding it at all costs, afraid that if he found himself in one of those rooms, things would go right back to the way they were in London.</p><p>With a flick of a switch, the dark room flooded with a warm light—a couple vanities, a full-length mirror, a couch, and a round coffee table covered in magazines, empty beer bottles, and leftover trails of coke coming into view. Before Roger could object, Geoff sat him down at one of the vanities and began sifting through the caddies of makeup in search of some foundation to hide the paleness of the blonde’s skin; maybe even a bit of blush, because the bar’s dim lights could only hide so much.</p><p>“So, are you just going to sit there and not tell me what’s going on?” the bartender blurted out, looking back over his shoulder at the blonde and smirking.</p><p>Roger shifted uncomfortably in his seat, answering timidly, “I...I don’t really want to talk about it. Can I please just get to work?”</p><p>“Looking like that?” Geoff chuckled, dabbing a large cosmetic brush into the light powder he’d picked out. “No way, hon. You go down there looking like that and you’ll go home sadder than when you walked in.” He swept the foundation across Roger’s cheeks, right underneath his rolling eye. “So, spill. What happened?”</p><p>“Geoff, it’s—” the blonde sighed, “It’s complicated. Okay?”</p><p>“Complicated is what I tell my parents when they ask me about my relationship with my nonexistent girlfriend,” the bartender retorted with a beguiling smirk, tapping the brush against the compact in his other hand.</p><p>Roger couldn’t help but return the facial expression, hanging his head to hide it and twiddling his thumbs in his lap.</p><p>“You know, Rog, I don’t know a lot about you,” Geoff continued, grabbing the blonde’s chin and tilting his head back to complete his work, “But I get the feeling that you and I are not all that different, and I know it’ll make you feel better if you stop acting like you can’t talk about these things with me. I’m not going to tell anyone. In fact, I think I’m the best confidant you’ve got.”</p><p>He raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Oh really?”</p><p>“Really. Now stop moving so I don’t get makeup in those pretty little blue eyes of yours.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yesterday, my sister and I decided to take a picture/video with (almost) all our Queen stuff to try and get the band's attention on social media. (We did not.) But I thought I might share it with you, so if you're interested, click the links below! (My sister's the one in the middle, by the way. I was behind the camera.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1oRgOj5RoppwLpk-4F0SQixV-Rn4rF2yy">https://drive.google.com/open?id=1oRgOj5RoppwLpk-4F0SQixV-Rn4rF2yy</a> (<strong>Picture</strong>)</p><p><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=1VFxX5mCup89Kfhotnn1kBo7Va6Eia8Dg">https://drive.google.com/open?id=1VFxX5mCup89Kfhotnn1kBo7Va6Eia8Dg</a> (<strong>Video</strong>)</p><p>“Okay, Mum, here’s everything I think you’ll need,” Brian said as he offered his mother, Ruth, the bag filled to the brim with diapers, wipes, pacifiers, bottles of milk, and changes of clothes. “I wrote down our number too, in case you forgot it or have any questions for us or if something happens,” he mentioned, sporting a nervous grin.</p><p>Ruth took the bag into her possession with a raised eyebrow and replied, “You know, this isn’t my first time taking care of a baby, Brian. You were a baby once too, and I’ve been watching Liz every day for you since school started up.”</p><p>“I-I know,” he stammered, rubbing his hands nervously on his shirt and looking down at his daughter who seemed unbothered by it all—lying in her carrier, her eyes drooping and her little arms wrapped around the teddy bear she’d received as a gift, “I just worry.”</p><p>“We’ll be okay, Bri,” his mother assured him, lifting the carrier up from the doorstep. The corner of her lip twitched upward into a slight grin before she tapped her dimpled cheek, beckoning her tall son for a farewell kiss. Brian did so obligingly, giving Liz a peck too, and thanked his mum once again, waving goodbye as she turned around and retreated down the walkway towards the car parked across the street from his house. Sitting in the driver’s seat was his father, Harold, who quickly averted his gaze when he noticed his son looking at him.</p><p>The subtle yet powerful gesture twisted Brian’s heart, reminding him that he still managed to disappoint his father, even after doing all the supposed “right” things. He completed his masters and was on his way towards earning his doctorate. He accepted the job at the university right after graduating. He bought a house not too long after that. Then he found and married a gorgeous woman, and together they had a daughter. The professor accomplished all Harold had ever hoped for, yet <em>it all happened a bit too quickly, if you ask me, </em>he muttered to his wife after their son had shared the news with them—meaning that everything Brian had done, sacrificing his happiness for what was right, still wasn’t good enough.</p><p>The professor bit his lip and clung to the door, watching as his mother struggled to get the carrier strapped into the backseat. He wanted to help her; to suggest that perhaps it was too much of a hassle and they ought to keep Liz for the night instead. However, he knew his mother wouldn’t accept his offer, determined to give her son and his wife a so-called “much needed” break. He also knew how much this night meant to Chrissie, and for that reason—as well as his desire to not let any more people down—the professor stayed put, taking a step back and shutting the door behind him.</p><p>Fighting the urge to turn back around and burst through the front door with every step he took, he sulked through the foyer and into the kitchen where Chrissie stood at the stove. He sneaked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her torso, planting a tender kiss on her temple. “It’s just you and me now,” he sighed, resting his chin atop her head.</p><p>The headmistress tilted her head back, revealing the excited smile that her lips had curled up into. The couple shared another quick kiss before Chrissie returned her attention to the pot of sauce she’d been stirring. The other pot was empty, for the pasta that previously cooked in it now sat in the colander in the sink. A fresh loaf of bread was baking in the oven, and on the table in the center of the room stood two candles glowing softly at different heights—accompanied by two neatly placed table settings. The meal wasn’t terribly elaborate, considering it all had to be done upon their return home from work, but it was the first meal Chrissie had prepared for them in a long time. They never really went through the dating phase that most couples do, and so this dinner was their best shot at it. Chrissie was trying her hardest, and Brian knew that. They both were.</p><p>“So,” the headmistress started as she brought the basket of bread over to the table, where Brian had begun to fill his plate—the pasta and the sauce steaming in their serving bowls, “What do you think?”</p><p>He met her anxious gaze and smiled. “I think it’s lovely, Chrissie. Thank you.”</p><p>She matched his facial expression, proud of herself for pleasing her husband. Although she didn’t act like it, she feared that history would repeat itself, and that she and Brian would fall into the same routine she and Timothée had. This wasn’t what she wanted—another ring around her finger and a child to bind them together long after the ring—but she chose to think of it as her second chance; a do-over. She didn’t want to mess it up. <em>She couldn’t.</em></p><p>As the headmistress went to take her seat, she scanned the table. Something didn’t seem right. “Oh no,” she murmured, standing back up and nervously patting down the front of her skirt, “Something’s missing. I forgot something.”</p><p>Brian’s eyes widened at the comment, his hands hovering over his fork and knife. “What did you forget?”</p><p>“I-I’ll be right back,” Chrissie stammered, rushing out of the room without further explanation. Brian leaned forward, hoping to see where his wife had run off to while wondering what it was that she could’ve possibly forgotten. The only thing he could think of was their daughter, the highchair still at the table taunting him like a sad, guilty memory. <em>It’s just for one night</em>.</p><p>After some rummaging through what Brian could only assume was the seldom touched credenza in his even more forgotten dining room, Chrissie returned, triumphantly clutching a bottle of wine and two wine glasses.</p><p>“‘Wouldn’t be much of a date without this, now would it?” she quipped, eliciting a slight smirk from her husband who nodded his head in agreement. The headmistress wasted no time in setting the glasses down and filling them up, the bottle drained before the clock could strike ten.</p><p>Sitting on the couch in their dim living room, soft music emanating from the record player in the corner of the room, the pair found themselves completely and utterly infatuated with one another. The headmistress was propped on the professor’s lap, rolling her hips against his while he dragged his hands across her body, wanting her as close to him as possible. With the alcohol in their systems, they felt like college students again, young and reckless. They didn’t care that the drapes weren’t pulled shut, or that baby toys were scattered about the floor. All they cared about was chasing that feeling that grew with each passing tick of the clock situated atop the fireplace mantle.</p><p>With hazy eyes, Brian tried to focus on the clock’s longest, thin, almost invisible moving hand, but his attention wandered over to the picture of him and his parents—the same one Roger had noticed when he first invited him over, or rather, surrendered to his suggestion. He could see it now, the blonde’s back to him as he turned on the light, the heartbroken look he threw over his shoulder, and the way his hands slipped into his pants pockets after setting the photo frame back in its place—masking the bulge that had undoubtedly formed.</p><p>The professor wondered if things would be different, had he just followed his urges that day and not been so scared. He thought about how it could be Roger sitting on his lap right now instead of Chrissie, sucking on his neck in the most tantalizing way, and the floor behind and in front of them would be cleaned—devoid of any signs that a child lived there. The nagging thought of whether his daughter was alright would be nonexistent too, for she wouldn’t have been born if he allowed Roger in that night.</p><p>The thing was, Brian loved his daughter. He loved her with all his heart, and it pained him to think of a life without her. Liz was his everything now, and Roger his past. Too much time had gone by for the blonde to change that—or so he believed.</p><p>*****</p><p>“I’m really disappointed that you didn’t invite your boyfriend here tonight, Rog,” Geoff mumbled as he and the blonde clocked out for the night, their shifts ending at the same time—though Geoff’s ended much earlier, his side gig keeping him there after hours, “I wanted him to see what an <em>amazing </em>number I did on you.”</p><p>Roger chuckled. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell him it was all you when I get home, I promise.”</p><p>“You better,” the prostituting bartender joked, smacking the blonde playfully on the arm before bidding him goodnight. Roger did the same but lingered a bit longer, wandering into the bathroom once his coworker was out of sight and locking the door behind him. He yanked at the paper towel dispenser, pulling each square out one by one with growing frustration until he had a decent pile accumulated on the grimy countertop. If there was one thing Roger could count on in New York City, it was the neglected public restrooms.</p><p>Turning the faucet, the blonde ran the corner of a handful of paper towels under the steady stream and brought the dampened end to his face, dragging it down his cheek and erasing the mask Geoff worked so hard on—the foundation, the eye shadow, the faint pink gloss on his lips, a few angry tears, all removed with a few, harsh swipes. He appreciated his friend’s efforts more than words could express, but he knew that if he wore the look home, Tim would—without a doubt—notice and get the wrong impression. The brunette had been itching for his chance to strike up their old business in the new city, and if he saw Roger sporting even the slightest bit of cosmetics, he’d jump at the opportunity like he’d never get another one. The blonde couldn’t risk that, not after all he did to distance himself from his past.</p><p>Roger heaved a sigh as he tossed the last of the paper towels into the trash, taking one final look at himself in the mirror. It terrified him to see that the makeup had all but more returned, with his hair tucked beneath the signature blonde wig he swore he left behind in London and his neck speckled with hickeys he didn’t recall getting. The sight threw him back into the bathroom wall, vanishing upon impact and being replaced with his foundation-free face, hickey-free neck, and natural, grown-out locks. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief and dared to take another glance at the reflective surface, this time his normal appearance sticking around.</p><p>With his heart pounding against his chest, Roger rushed home, surely attracting the attention of the lurkers but not enough to draw them out of the shadows. He even caught the eye of Tim’s friend who sat out on his balcony, smoking his nightly joint. However, the landlord was too stoned to have the wits to meet the blonde halfway, so, without any obstacles, the blonde made it to his apartment, slamming the door behind him and falling against it.</p><p>He dropped his head back against the smooth surface and looked to his left to see Tim passed out on the couch—the loud noise not having stirred him one bit. His legs were propped up on the coffee table and his head was dropped to the side, the phone’s handset resting on his shoulder, the base sitting in his lap, and a faint dial tone buzzing from the speaker. The peaceful sight brought a small grin to Roger’s face, <em>almost</em> making up for the terrible-from-beginning-to-end day he had.</p><p>The blonde sighed and peeled himself away from the door, crossing the room to take the seat next to his boyfriend. Just before he got settled, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and out fell a slip onto the floor. He raised a suspicious eyebrow and tossed the small, worn-out leather pouch onto the table, bending down to snatch the piece of paper up and unfolding it to see that it was a number—Brian’s number.</p><p>Roger’s cheeks suddenly grew warm, the memory flooding back to him like he’d just been given it yesterday.</p><p>It was the day after Winter break; the day he returned to the university to retrieve his things; the day Brian walked away from him, but not before giving him a way back.</p><p>
  <em>The professor gave the piano one final shove, taking a step back to assess his work and deciding its placement was as good as it was going to get. He glanced back over his shoulder to see the blonde, standing stiff in the center of the room—staring right at him while at the same time not seeing him at all. The pathetic sight tugged at the professor’s heart, the ghost of his harsh words haunting his memory.</em>
</p><p>"And this distance you're putting between us, it won't change that. I know you want it to, but it won't. Remember that when you're in America and all you have is Tim."</p><p>
  <em>Biting his lip, his gaze flickered over to one of the tables where a pad and pen had been left behind. Without so much as a second thought, he walked over and took a seat, grabbing the two items and quickly scribbling down his phone number. He capped the pen with a beating heart and tore the sheet unevenly, taking the smaller of the two halves and creasing the center. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Brian stood up and walked over to Roger, dropping his free hand onto the blonde’s shoulder and breaking him from the daze he’d fallen into. “Take care, Rog,” he murmured, placing the strip of paper into the former music instructor’s palm and folding his fingers over it. He looked into the sad blue eyes locked on his and tried his best to smile, but he couldn’t, and so he retracted both his hands and slipped them into his pockets, leaving the room without any intention of turning back.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The blonde’s fingers uncurled to reveal the slip, and it wasn’t long before he realized what it was. The ends began to crinkle underneath his tightening grip, and a tear fell from his eye, splashing onto the paper and making some of the blue ink bleed. If it weren’t for the knock on the door, or the fact that it was Freddie leaning against the threshold with pursed lips, he would’ve broken down right then and there.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“So, what did I miss?” the dark-haired man asked casually, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt in an afterthought attempt to disguise the evidence of his romp in the janitor’s closet, “Change your mind yet about this whole new-life-with-Tim-in-America thing?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Roger sniffled and pulled out his wallet, shoving the phone number into the pocket with the few bills he carried and turning around to face his friend. “No,” he swiped his hand underneath his eye and wiped it against his pants, “I-We’re still going.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Really? Why?” Freddie whined, the blonde brushing past him and wordlessly beckoning him to follow. He heaved a sigh and dragged himself down the hall, pushing past students with his hands up.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Because it’s over, Freddie,” he mumbled once the dark-haired man joined his side, his cheeks blushing brightly, “It’s over.”</em>
</p><p>Roger blinked away the tears that had resurfaced in his eyes and glanced down over at the phone still sitting in his boyfriend’s lap. He pressed his lips tightly together, his gaze trailing up Tim’s chest to his face. The blonde swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and dared to take the phone from the brunette’s possession, setting the paper slip down on the table and slowly lifting the handset off his shoulder; the base from his lap. He didn’t even realize it, but he held his breath doing so, afraid that if he exhaled, Tim would wake and interrogate him. He didn’t know what he would say if he was asked about his intentions, because he wasn’t quite sure himself. He was just following his instincts; going with his gut.</p><p>Thankfully Roger managed to transfer the device from Tim to himself, letting out the anxious breath he’d been holding in and bringing the phone up to his ear, his thumb falling down on the button that ended the disconnected call. His eyes wandered down to the number, his heartbeat in his ears. He’d made a call back home before, to Freddie, so he was no stranger to international calls—nor was he a stranger to the toll they took on his and Tim’s phone bill, so he had to make this call worth it.</p><p>
  <em>Would it be worth it?</em>
</p><p>The blonde took in a deep breath and lifted his thumb, the dial tone starting up again. He punched in the number slowly, one digit at a time, as if to give himself the opportunity to change his mind, hang up, and go to bed. However, he persisted, finishing the number with a clenched jaw and leaning back into the couch, listening to it ring.</p><p>The longer it rang, the faster Roger’s heart pounded against his chest and the more his nerves began to build. The temptation to hang up became more and more enticing, and just as he sat up, ready to smash the handset down on the receiver, the ringing ceased and a groggy <em>“Hello?”</em> sounded from the speaker.</p><p>Roger froze, the familiar voice sending a chill down his spine.</p><p>
  <em>“Hello?” </em>
</p><p>The blonde flinched and quickly hung up, tossing the entire thing to the floor and waking his boyfriend with a start. He sat forward and buried his face behind his hands, Tim rubbing his back in a comforting way and mumbling tiredly, “Hey, when did you get home?”</p><p>Roger was too shaken up to bring himself to answer Tim’s question, opting instead to shake his head in embarrassment and jump up from the couch, snatching up the wallet and slip of paper and disappearing into their bedroom—the door slamming shut behind him. The brunette shot up from his slouched position on the couch, his eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.</p><p>“Bad day?” he guessed in a pathetic attempt to bring the blonde back out, his call going unanswered, much to his disappointment. He frowned and ran his fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp and scanning the shadow-cast apartment for an explanation. He wouldn’t find it—not that night, at least.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(Explanation of the gif below at the end of the chapter)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>“Hello?” Brian asked for a third time, admittedly a little irritated at the late night/early morning caller. His frustration reached its peak when the eerie silence was quickly replaced with the even more unsettling dial tone. An annoyed grunt slipped past his lips as he pulled the phone away from his ear and placed it back in its cradle, turning over from his side to his back—an uneasy feeling forming in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>“Who was it?” Chrissie murmured tiredly, draping her arm over her husband’s exposed chest and curling up next to him—their bare skin touching underneath the sheets.</p><p>“I-I don’t know,” the professor stammered, staring up at the dark ceiling that, in just a few short moments, would be illuminated by the sunrise. “They didn’t say anything.”</p><p>“You don’t think it was your mum, do you?” she whispered, her soft, almost indifferent words tickling Brian’s ribs.</p><p>“I don’t think so,” he answered, tilting his head down and bringing a hand up to weave his fingers into her disheveled hair. “She would’ve said something to me if it was.”</p><p>Chrissie hummed in complacent acceptance of the strange situation, not letting it affect her like it had affected Brian, who hung onto it like his dream from the previous night. He wondered if somehow they were connected, but the idea was quickly disregarded for its lack of probability. It wasn’t like he’d ever given John or Debbie his home number, and he doubted that Roger would have kept it. The exchange happened nearly a year ago, and Brian was certain that the blonde either threw it away the same day he gave it to him or held onto it for as long as he could before losing it somewhere—perhaps on the street, or in a supermarket, or a park. Whichever way, he found it hard to believe that Roger was the caller, especially after all this time.</p><p>Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he was. The thought ignited a curiosity in him that taunted him all day as he and Chrissie went to work, as he taught his classes as best he could, and as the couple drove across town to Brian’s mum’s house to pick up their daughter.</p><p>“She was very well behaved,” Ruth commented as she handed the baby girl over to her father, a smile breaking out onto the professor’s face as well as the infant’s. “Slept like an angel.”</p><p>“Thanks again, Ruth,” Chrissie murmured as she picked up the baby bag and carrier, throwing the strap over her shoulder and looking at her husband and daughter with a small grin. She returned her attention to her mother-in-law and added, “We really appreciate it. I mean, <em>really</em>.”</p><p>“Oh, anytime!” the older woman beamed, reaching out and affectionately ruffling the hair atop the little girl’s head, “It’s always a joy having her around.”</p><p>“She didn’t bother Dad too much, did she?” Brian asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet to keep Liz happy. Despite the grin he plastered on his face, there was a seriousness to his inquiry—a seriousness that welcomed an awkward tension to seep into the atmosphere. It was no secret that Brian and his father’s relationship had deteriorated over the years, every decision he made adding to the growing distance between them. That didn’t stop him from trying to fix it, though.</p><p>Ruth took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking her head and assuring him, “He was fine, dear.” The corners of her lips pricked up and she revealed with a slight chuckle, “I think he quite liked having someone to stay up with him for the <em>Nine O’Clock News</em>.”</p><p>Chrissie laughed. “That’s great.”</p><p>“Yeah, I-I’m glad to hear she didn’t cause too much trouble,” Brian stuttered, the mustered grin faltering as he looked down at his daughter.</p><p>“Well, we ought to get going. It’s getting dark out, and I don’t want the little one to think watching the <em>Nine O’Clock News </em>is going to become a regular thing,” the headmistress announced lightheartedly, kissing her mother-in-law goodbye on the cheek and thanking her once more before making her way down the steps to their running car. The professor trailed along after her, but not without bidding his mum farewell with another peck to her cheek.</p><p>As Brian set foot on the pavement below, Ruth called out hesitantly, “He...He’ll come around one of these days, Bri! You’ve just got to give it time!” The professor turned his head over his shoulder, a dejected look in his eyes that said everything he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t say anything the entire drive home.</p><p>It was only on their doorstep, Chrissie fumbling with the keys to their home, when he blurted out, “What am I doing wrong?”</p><p>His wife’s gaze flickered over to him, but only for a second, quickly returning to the door and its lock that was masked by the shadows of the early autumn night. “What do you mean?” she entertained the thought, though her interest in the matter appeared absent.</p><p>Brian heaved a sigh and dropped his head, glancing down at the baby carrier that hung on his arm. He bit his lip, holding back all the immediate responses that formed in his mind. <em>I’m miserable. We’re only here because of her, and last night only happened because we were drunk. My mum pities me, my dad hates me, and no one at the university respects me. I’ve been thinking about Roger these past few days, as well as some of my students, which I can’t explain. I really want to see him again—Roger, I mean. I want to hold him again, kiss his—</em></p><p>The click of the front door as it was pushed in tore the professor from his spiraling thoughts, the burning blush in his cheeks disguised by the darkness that consumed the neighborhood. He followed his wife inside, forgetting to answer her question as he declared he’d get Liz ready for a bath. Chrissie didn’t even get the chance to respond, for when she turned back around, he had already disappeared upstairs. </p><p>Within record time, the bottom of the tub had been submerged in a shallow pool of warm water with Liz sitting in the middle of it, happily splashing around while Brian supported her back. He ran the soft cloth in his free hand across her skin with care, trying his hardest to focus on the baby girl and not the deafening thoughts from before that returned with a ruthless vengeance.</p><p><em>This is your life now, </em>he reminded himself. <em>This little girl, your wife downstairs, they need you just as much as you need them. </em>He<em>, on the other hand, didn’t need you. You gave him a chance to stay, </em>twice<em>, and he turned you down, </em>twice<em>. You tried, and you failed. Give it up already.</em></p><p>“What do you think, Liz?” Brian muttered, dipping the cloth into the lukewarm tub, “Do you think it’s time I give it up?” The little girl giggled and slapped the water surrounding her, speckling the light blue button-down the professor had yet to change out of with a few darker blue spots. The corner of his lip perked upward as he brought the washcloth to her arm and sighed. “I can’t wait for the day you start talking. Then we can have <em>real </em>conversations.”</p><p>“She’s only three months old, Brian,” an unexpected voice pointed out, drawing his attention over his shoulder to spot Chrissie in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest; a smirk on her face.</p><p>The blush he’d gotten rid of quickly crept back into his cheeks. He embarrassedly glanced back down at Liz and continued to bathe her, muttering, “She’s just growing up so quickly. ‘Seems like yesterday we were taking her home from the hospital.”</p><p>Chrissie smiled at the memory but refrained from providing a response, watching instead as Brian draped the wet cloth over the edge of the tub and lifted their daughter up out of the water—droplets falling from her little toes in an uneven pattern. He instinctively held her close to him, dripping wet, and went to grab for a towel—only to find there wasn’t one. The professor’s eyebrows knit together, swearing to himself that he’d set one out before he started the bath, but his confusion was short-lived; forgotten when his wife offered him one from the closet. He feigned a grin and accepted the towel, wrapping the baby girl up in it with a skill that came with practice.</p><p>After putting Liz to bed, the nighttime ritual taking longer than normal—thanks to her pampered treatment at her grandparents’ house—Brian joined the withdrawn headmistress downstairs, where she stood in the living room, just like she had in the bathroom’s doorway. This time, however, her gaze focused out the front window, and there was no smirk. The professor quietly joined her side and tried to see what enraptured her so, but all he saw was darkness.</p><p>“You’re not telling me something,” Chrissie muttered, finally breaking the silence that consumed the home. She kept her head straight and waited for Brian to respond. She was even willing to accept a reaction, <em>something</em> to let her know that he knew what she was talking about, but when all he did was stand there, doing neither, she heaved a sigh and dared to look up at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”</p><p>Brian bit his lip and tilted his head down, folding his arms over his chest—his shirt still wet from his daughter’s bath. “It’s...I...” He struggled to find the answer his wife was looking for. He wanted to be honest with her, because it was something they agreed on when they first began sneaking around with one another, but both of them had broken that promise long ago. Yet another disappointment from theirs truly. So, with a shaky breath, he finally spat out, “I just can’t stop thinking about him.”</p><p>The headmistress rolled her eyes—the instinctive response out of her control. She should’ve known those seven words were coming, for they always seemed to be the explanation to her husband’s distractedness. She had grown tired of <em>him </em>still invading her life, like some incurable disease, but nothing she did seemed to get rid of him. Nothing.</p><p>“I had this dream, Chrissie,” Brian confessed, shaking his head in embarrassment, “And he was in it, and ever since that night, I just...I can’t get him out of my head.” He glanced up, hoping to meet her gaze, but she’d disappeared—abandoning his side and taking a seat on the far end of the couch, her head turned away from him to hide the tears that started to distort her vision. He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and clenched his hands tucked underneath his arms into fists, asking, “What if it was him who called this morning?”</p><p>Chrissie sniffled so softly the professor didn’t hear, swiping her thumb underneath her glistening eye. “Why would he have called us?”</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>“He left, Brian,” the headmistress muttered after a long pause, her reddened gaze flickering over to meet her husband’s that had slowly traveled over his shoulder, “He’s gone. He’s not coming back.”</p><p><em>Thanks to you, </em>the professor thought pettily. That was another thing Brian’s mind often dwelled on, how—even if that first night happened as it did—Roger would still be here if it wasn’t for Chrissie firing him. Because she let him go, he felt that he had no choice but to fall back into Tim’s arms and be whisked away to America. Had she let him keep the job, though, who knew what things would be like? Of course, Brian would still have Chrissie and Liz, but maybe—just maybe—he’d also have Roger, in whatever way he could have him, just so long as he was there.</p><p>He felt guilty for thinking that way, especially knowing what led to the demise of Chrissie’s relationship with her last husband, but he couldn’t deny his longing for the blonde. Even after nearly a year—a <em>busy </em>year, at that—he still wanted him, and Chrissie could sense it. She hadn’t said anything before, not wanting to believe it, but she wasn’t a fool. She saw the signs. She heard his late-night talks with Liz. She didn’t know all the details, but she knew, and this was the first time she expressed her feelings on the matter, even without saying so directly.</p><p>Brian spun around. “But what if—”</p><p>“No,” she cut him short, shaking her head, “He’s not a part of your life anymore, and you’re not a part of his. Do you understand that?” She stood up from the couch and turned towards him. “I need you to understand that, Brian. <em>Please</em> tell me you understand that.”</p><p>The professor hung his head, playing with one of the buttons on his shirt that had started to come loose. “He was my friend,” he murmured, avoiding her question.</p><p>Chrissie rolled her eyes once again. “Brian, you only knew him for two months. You have no idea the kind of person he really is.”</p><p><em>But I do, </em>he wanted to say. He remembered Roger’s confession to him, explaining to him exactly what landed him the gig at the university. However, he also remembered the blonde’s resentment towards the life he lived, and how he took the music instructor position Chrissie offered him to get away from it. Brian knew exactly who Roger was, and who he wanted to be. Chrissie was the one with no idea. She only thought of him as the man she regretted taking a chance on, her act of kindness backfiring and destroying her life even more.</p><p>The headmistress crossed the room and took her husband’s hands in hers, looking him in the mistrustful eyes and murmuring, “Believe me when I say you’re better off without him.” Brian turned his head to the side, trying to disguise the pained expression that appeared on his face, but Chrissie brought her hands up to cup his cheeks and redirect his attention to her. “Look, I know everything happened with us so quickly, and you think you’re doing it all wrong, but you’re not. Okay?” She hesitantly rose to her tiptoes and planted a gentle kiss on his lips, slowly pulling back and repeating softly, “You’re not.”</p><p>*****</p><p>Roger went through his day with a clouded mind, unable to forget about the embarrassment that washed over him from his failed call with Brian. Most of all, though, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he saw that night in the bathroom mirror at the bar. He hadn’t dressed like that in over a year, and even though the opportunity presented itself to him every night, he had no desire to revert back to old habits.</p><p>That’s what drove him to where he found himself the next night, standing in his and Tim’s bathroom—empty beer bottles scattered about the apartment and an old Beatles record playing at full volume in the next room over. The brunette was out that night with his friend doing god knows what, leaving the blonde all alone with no one to stop him from making what could have been one of the biggest mistakes of his life. Roger’s appearance was his best attribute—everyone knew that—and if he messed this up, he didn’t know what he would do—neglecting to remember that hair grew back in his anxious, plastered state of mind.</p><p>Staring at himself in the mirror, Roger tried to slow his breathing—<em>in, out, in, out</em>. If someone were to look in on him that night, they would’ve thought that the pair of scissors was burning hot, for the blonde couldn’t hold them for longer than a few seconds. He’d bring the dull blades up to his hair with a shaky hand, hold a section of his precious locks with the other, and before he could bring the two together, he’d panic and toss the scissors into the sink, pacing around the small apartment, taking another sip of beer from whichever bottle he could get his hands on, and returning to the bathroom for another attempt. He needed to do this; he needed to make sure things never went back to the way they were.</p><p>This went on for a good half hour, the liquid courage finally kicking in for the blonde and bringing him to make the first cut when the LP record reached its end—the needle scratching the vinyl’s smooth surface. He instantly let out a small cry, staring at the clump of severed blonde locks lying lifelessly in the basin of the sink.</p><p>“Oh my god,” he muttered, the scissors dropping from his hands and clattering against the tiled floor beneath his feet. He clasped his hands over his mouth and studied his reflection in the dingy mirror, eyes glistening with regret. “What have I done?”</p><p>Just then, before Roger lost all his wits, the front door to the apartment flew open, slamming against the wall. The blonde leaned back to peer out into the common area, where Tim and his friend had drunkenly strolled in—the former breaking off into the kitchen to scour through the fridge for more drinks, while the latter allowed the couch across from the kitchen to draw him in like a magnet, face-first. Roger prayed with all his might—despite not considering himself a religious man in any capacity—that neither of the men would notice him, but sure enough, his boyfriend turned his head over his shoulder and spotted him.</p><p><em>Shit</em>.</p><p>The brunette’s eyebrows furrowed together, wondering what the blonde was doing hiding in the bathroom. Naturally, curiosity got the best of him, and he slammed the refrigerator door shut and began to stagger towards the bathroom. In turn, Roger instantly mirrored his steps—his foot landing right on the opened pair of scissors and eliciting a loud, “Fuck!” from him as he fell to the ground.</p><p>“Roger?!” Tim shouted, rushing forward and pushing the door in to reveal his boyfriend on the floor, hands wrapped around his injured foot. “What happened? Are you okay?”</p><p>“Do I fucking look like I’m okay?” the blonde yelled back, angered eyes flying up to meet the brunette’s bloodshot ones. His fury stemmed from many things—his intoxication, his carelessness that landed him on his ass, his disastrous attempt at cutting his hair, his shameful desire to reconnect with Brian, his degrading arrangement with Cheryl, Tim’s inability to keep the promise he made when they agreed to move to America, their ongoing relationship. All those things and more stirred the building resentment inside of him, and it was only a matter of time before he couldn’t contain it.</p><p>Before Roger could go off, the unexpected guest joined the party, popping his head over Tim’s shoulder to assess the situation. “You didn’t break anything, did you?” he asked, earning a glare from both men. “What? I’m just making sure—”</p><p>“You know, I think you should leave,” Tim muttered, hanging his head and meeting the blonde’s baffled gaze, “We’re all out of beer anyways.”</p><p>The landlord shifted his attention between the two before rolling his eyes and leaving the apartment, reminding them that, if they did break something, it would be their responsibility to pay for it—tacking on that he accepted <em>all </em>forms of payment, including blondes. Tim shot daggers in his friend’s direction, but before they could impale him, he escaped. Roger groaned and lied back on the bathroom floor, covering his embarrassed face with his bloody hands.</p><p>“He can be such an arse sometimes,” the brunette grumbled, lowering himself to the ground by his boyfriend’s feet and sitting with his back against the doorway. He sat there for a moment, hoping that the blonde would solve this problem like he had countless others, but Roger remained quiet and still, thinking about the uneven strands of hair fanned out on the dirty tiles above his head. His thoughts were so deafening that he almost didn’t realize that Tim had snatched the towel draped over the edge of the sink, wrapped it around his foot, and begrudgingly murmured, “So are you going to tell me what happened?”</p><p>Roger took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I fucked up,” he answered, his voice muffled by the hands still masking his face.</p><p>“What do you mean you fucked up?” Tim worriedly asked, his heart beating faster at the insinuations forming in his mind. Those three words weren’t used lightly in the boys’ relationship, and although they usually spilled from Tim’s mouth and referred to situations much more serious than the one the blonde was currently dealing with, they still held their weight—even more so when uttered by the younger of the two.</p><p>“I <em>mean</em>, I fucked up.”</p><p>“What does that—”</p><p>“Look at me!” he screamed, shooting up from the floor so that he was sitting upright, his reddened eyes looking right into Tim’s.</p><p>The brunette stared at the blonde with a blank expression, shaking his head. “I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to be looking at, Rog.”</p><p>Roger scoffed at his boyfriend’s ignorance and tried to pull himself up off the floor, but he didn’t get far before being pulled back down—the pain in his foot too much to bear. Tim fidgeted, wanting to help, but the fleeting moment passed so quickly that his only option was to watch the blonde hold back the tears that wanted to stream down his rosy cheeks.</p><p>The brunette shifted uncomfortably, noticing for the first time the pair of scissors that had been kicked to the corner of the small room, one of its handles peeking out from underneath the door. His eyebrow raised in suspicion as he started to make the connection between his boyfriend’s dramatic outburst and the hidden evidence. He slowly looked back at his boyfriend and asked, “What was going on in here, Rog?”</p><p>The blonde sniffled, twiddling his thumbs in his laps. “I just...I needed to do it.”</p><p>“Do what, Rog?”</p><p>“I looked too much like her,” he mumbled, his gaze locked on his lap.</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes, exhausted by the game his boyfriend was having him play. “Like who?”</p><p>“Like Liz,” Roger croaked, the grip his hands had on one another tightening as the image from the previous night seared his mind—the disheveled wig, the smeared lipstick, the faint bruises painting his neck, it all looked so real. It even <em>felt </em>real, which scared him the most.</p><p>“Oh,” the brunette murmured, a blush rising in his cheeks.</p><p>An awkward silence fell over the pair, the blonde having yet to answer his boyfriend’s question, but he didn’t need to. A wave of guilt washed over Tim, the brunette knowing exactly what Roger was trying to do in that bathroom, even in his inebriated state.</p><p>He’d be lying if he said he didn’t try to bring their London lifestyle with them to New York. Tim thought a lot about the promise he made before they left, not having the chance to forget with the blonde bringing it up every time he tried to get things back to the way they were—before Roger got the job at the university and met Brian. The problem was, he couldn’t remember the conditions, for he never heard them in the first place. It was only at times like this when Tim was faced with the consequences of his actions, and the resentment he felt towards his disregard of the fine print.</p><p>He liked Roger a lot better when he was Liz, but after leaving her behind like all their belongings in England, he felt like he was missing something. Then he realized, as Roger’s hair grew out, he hadn’t lost her at all. She was right there, with him the whole time, and he thought that if he kept quiet about it, Roger would realize it too and find his way back to the old persona on his own.</p><p>Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen.</p><p>“I tried cutting my hair,” the blonde finally confessed, biting his lip and daring to meet his boyfriend’s pained stare. He couldn’t hold it, though, and hung his head once more, adding an embarrassed, “But I couldn’t do it. I just made it worse. I’m hideous now.”</p><p>“Did you really think cutting your hair was going to make her go away?” Tim asked, a manipulative undertone to his question that reluctantly attracted Roger’s attention. “I mean, Liz...she’s a part of you, Roger, and she always will be. You <em>are </em>her, just as much as <em>she </em>is <em>you</em>. You can’t possibly tell me that you thought you could get rid of her by chopping off all your hair.”</p><p>“Then tell me how I get rid of her!” he cried, tears spilling from his eyes. “Because we moved halfway across the world, Tim. We left everything behind, <em>everything</em>, yet I’m still living the same fucking life I did back there.” He punched the side of the tub out of frustration before drawing his knees in and burying his face in his crossed arms. “What am I doing wrong?” he choked.</p><p>The brunette pressed his lips together and scratched the back of his head, listening to the sobs that began to rack his boyfriend’s body. He heaved a sigh and looked back at the forgotten pair of scissors, taking a quick glance at the blonde before deciding to snatch the tools up and rise to his feet. “Get up,” he muttered, receiving another confused look from Roger.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Pull yourself up onto the edge of the tub,” he elaborated, witnessing the strands of hair in the sink for the first time. He bit his lip and chose to ignore them, turning on the faucet and running the blood-spattered blades under the stream of water.</p><p>“Why?” the blonde continued his interrogation, despite doing as he was instructed with a strained grunt.</p><p>“Because I’m gonna cut your hair,” Tim announced, drying the cleaned blades off on the towel that hung on the back of the door.</p><p>Roger’s eyes grew wide. “Aren’t you drunk? I know I am, and I couldn’t—”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, climbing into the tub so he was standing behind Roger and looking at the two of them in the mirror, “Besides, the buzz is wearing off.” The blonde tipped his head back to look up at his boyfriend who smiled down at him. “It’ll be okay. Trust me.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>When I was writing Roger's part of the chapter, the scene from Howl's Moving Castle where Sophie cleans up the bathroom and accidentally messes up Howl's hair routine popped into my head, so I wanted to find a gif to show that because I imagined Roger freaking out in a similar manner. Hope you see the connection too!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>October’s cold, bright sunlight flooded the small New York City apartment, a shaft of light shining on the couple who lied in bed, comfortably tangled in one another’s arms—too exhausted to hear the alarm blaring from the clock on the nightstand. It was only when the light hit their eyes that the blonde stirred awake, groaning as he rolled off the brunette’s chest—waking him up in the process—and slammed his hand down on the device.</p><p>“I had the worst dream, Tim,” Roger grumbled, burying his face into the pillow.</p><p>“Oh yeah?” he muttered, raising his arms and crossing them over his eyes.</p><p>“Yeah,” the blonde murmured, his description of the dream lost in the cushioning beneath his head. However, what he described was no dream. What he described was exactly what happened last night—the Beatles record, the traumatizing attempt at cutting his hair, Tim and his friend’s unexpected return, the accidental slicing of his foot, Tim’s intervening, and the worst part of all—the sound of the water that washed his hacked-at blonde locks down the tub drain and the hideous reflection that stared back at him with hair just scraping its shoulders. It had to be a dream, because the man he saw couldn’t have been himself. There was no way.</p><p>“That’s wild,” Tim hummed once Roger’s incoherent mumbling quieted.</p><p>“Yeah, wild,” the blonde tiredly agreed, lying there in comfortable silence for a little longer before his closed eyes fluttered open—the red numbers of the digital alarm clock entering his line of vision over the edge of the pillow and setting a fire underneath him.</p><p>“Shit!” Roger yelled, shooting up off the bed and heading for the bathroom when a catcalling whistle stopped him in his tracks—the slight pain in his foot registering for the first time since he woke up. The discomfort elicited a hint of suspicion from him, but not enough for him to make the obvious connection. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Tim looking down at him, his lips curled into a smirk and his hands resting behind his head.</p><p>“You know, I think I can get used to this,” he purred, pushing himself against the headboard so that he was sitting upright, “Why don’t you come back to bed and give me a better look at my masterpiece, beautiful?” The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed together, not knowing what he meant or if he was being serious. “Oh, come on, don’t be such a tease,” he coaxed, palming himself through the sheets, “Spare a few minutes and show your so <em>very</em> talented boyfriend some appreciation. It’s the least I deserve for all my hard work.”</p><p>Roger scoffed. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I don’t have time for whatever it is you’re doing. I can’t afford to be late again, Tim. I could lose my job.” And with that, he escaped to the small room where some of the floor tiles had been stained a faint shade of red. It wasn’t long before a blood-curdling scream echoed through the apartment and the entire complex.</p><p>“What? You don’t like it?” Tim called from the next room over, Roger’s worst nightmare manifesting itself before his very eyes.</p><p>The blonde reappeared in the bedroom doorway, livid. “What the hell did you do to me?” he screamed, his heart pounding against his chest so fast he thought it might explode.</p><p>“I fixed your mistake!” the brunette shouted back, tossing the bed sheets aside and throwing his legs over the side of the bed.</p><p>Roger turned away from Tim and ran his fingers through his shorter hair, worrying about the consequences he was sure to face—namely from Cheryl. She loved his long hair; she told him so on several occasions. God knows what she would do to him for getting rid of it.</p><p>“You know, I’ve been doing that a lot lately,” Tim noted, lifting himself up off the mattress and turning to face the man who kept his back to him, arms crossed. “So why not instead of yelling at me about it, you thank me for once?” Roger shot a narrowed-eyed glance over his shoulder. “You’ve said it before; I know you can say it again. ‘Thank you, Tim.’ It’s that simple. Try it.”</p><p>He slowly spun back around, matching his boyfriend’s stance. “No.”</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“I’m not thanking you, Tim!”</p><p>“Well I’m not the one who decided to cut his hair in the middle of the night for no fucking reason!”</p><p>There was a reason, and if his dream wasn’t a dream, then Tim knew what that reason was, because the blonde remembered explaining why he did what he did. He also remembered the look on Tim’s face as his alter ego’s name rolled off his tongue. It was a look of shame; a look Roger had never seen in Tim before last year when he set up that appointment with Sid. That was the last appointment he scheduled, and the blonde needed to eliminate any and all chances of another one being made. That’s why he was so desperate to get rid of Liz. He didn’t think he could handle another situation like that. Hell, he barely survived the first.</p><p>Roger clenched his hands into fists by his sides, rage fuming inside of him. He wanted to continue the argument and prove Tim wrong, but he didn’t have the time. So, instead, he dropped the conversation and stormed out, snatching a jacket on his way out to throw over the same clothes he wore yesterday—having fallen asleep in them—and hoping he could catch the subway and sneak past Cheryl at the café.</p><p>He should’ve known better.</p><p>Cheryl had been waiting for him, counting each minute that passed by in Roger’s absence. She was just about ready to fire him, but then she saw him walk in. The speech Cheryl had prepared went to waste as the blonde made his way towards her in slow motion, the shorter and enlivened locks bouncing with each step he took.</p><p>It almost didn’t register in her mind that he was standing right in front of her, pleading, “Cheryl, look, I can explain—”</p><p>“Shh.” She pressed a finger up to his parted lips, admiring the sight before her. She didn’t know what it was about his new look that drove her crazy—he was plenty good-looking before. However, with the new haircut, he appeared irresistible. “Come with me.”</p><p>“Cheryl, please, I—”</p><p>“Stop talking,” she snapped, grabbing his shirt and dragging him into the back like a disobedient dog on a collar. He felt the judgmental eyes of the café’s customers and his fellow coworkers as he stumbled behind her, helpless under her grasp. Cheryl tossed him into the small bathroom and trailed in behind him, slamming the door behind her and biting her lip. She writhed under her uniform, swimming in the ecstasy of admiring her new and improved toy who kept his back to her and hugged himself nervously.</p><p>Roger didn’t know what to expect, preparing for the worst and hoping for the best—either a harsh scolding and the loss of half his laughable income, or a promotion in their under-the-table arrangement. As usual, the promotion would benefit Cheryl more than him, but he figured at least he’d still have a job and wouldn’t have to pull out his old box of tricks.</p><p>“Turn around,” she ordered.</p><p>He sighed. “Do I have to?”</p><p>“<em>Turn around</em>.”</p><p>“I just want to get to work, Cheryl.”</p><p>“And you will, but first, you have to turn around.”</p><p>Roger closed his eyes, a feeling of déjà vu washing over him. He’d heard that tone before, and he knew how to respond to it, and how not to respond to it—all thanks to Tim, the brunette giving him plenty of practice. So, his decision to face his manager seemed obvious, though it didn’t stop his heart from racing a mile a minute.</p><p>He shifted his gaze from his feet to Cheryl’s face, noticing that she was flush with the door—a long, lacquered fingernail pinched between her teeth and her eyes hazy with lust. Roger’s eyebrows furrowed together, her response to his new appearance nothing at all like what he had expected. He imagined she would be infuriated, shouting at the top of her lungs about how he didn’t have the right to do such a thing; how he was an idiot and ruined the best thing he had going for him there in America. Sadly, he’d agree with her. He wouldn’t try to put up a fight or dispute her claims. Instead, he would accept his punishment and be on his way. This, however, <em>this </em>he wasn’t prepared for.</p><p>“What made you cut it?” she asked, a glimmer of innocence breaking through her provocative front.</p><p>“I-I needed a change,” the blonde stuttered with reddened cheeks, neglecting to share with her the reason for that change. The manager stared at him for a little more, nodding her head like she’d heard what he said even though she hadn’t; like she was too preoccupied with thoughts about running her hands through the shorter locks and the sound Roger would make when she tugged at them to properly listen. He cleared his throat and gestured behind her. “Can I go to work now?”</p><p>“No,” Cheryl whispered, the corner of her lip twitching upward into a smirk, “No, you can’t.”</p><p>Roger exhaled frustratedly and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well are you just going to stare at me, or are you actually going to do something?”</p><p>Her glazed-over eyes broke away from the object of her fascination and dropped to meet his baby blues, the half-smile she wore evolving into a full one as she pulled away from the door and sauntered towards him. The blonde tensed up the closer she got, his heart daring to burst right from his chest. He flinched when she raised her hands, weaving her fingers into his hair and sending a shiver down his back.</p><p>Once again, Roger found himself at Cheryl’s beck and call, following her lead as she pressed her plump lips against his. This kiss was different from the others, though. It wasn’t as rough, or as forced. It was gentle, sensual, and before he knew, over.</p><p>“Sit down,” the manager insisted, pushing the blonde back with a soft tap to his shoulder. The tender touch caused him to lose his footing, falling backwards onto the closed toilet seat and clinging to the sides for support. He watched as his superior dropped to her knees, glancing up at him with a look he hadn’t seen in her before. “Open your legs.”</p><p>“Cheryl, I really don’t—”</p><p>“<em>Open your legs, Roger,</em>” she growled, “Or else you can walk right out of this place and never come back. Your choice.”</p><p>He clenched his jaw, hating the proposition she was giving him. Both options were unfavorable, the consequences almost the same. However, before he or Cheryl could seal his fate, a knock pounded on the door—followed by a surprisingly calm, deep voice that Roger was unfamiliar with.</p><p>“Cheryl, what did I tell you about fucking the customers?”</p><p>The manager heaved an irritated sigh and drew her hands away from the button of Roger’s jeans, turning her head over her shoulder and responding, “It’s not a customer, Stewart.”</p><p>The blonde heard the faint scoff that the reply elicited from Stewart. “Look, I don’t care who it is, Cheryl, just...just let the poor guy go and come on out. We have to talk.”</p><p>“Who’s Stewart?” Roger inquired under his breath as the woman who was ready to give him a blow job begrudgingly pulled herself up off the floor and brushed the dirt off her knees. She narrowed her eyes and denied him an answer with the turn of her heel, tearing the door open to reveal the tall blonde standing outside, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest and an annoyed expression on his face—accustomed to her antics. It made Roger wonder how many other employees she constituted these kinds of arrangements with.</p><p>Cheryl forced a grin to her face. “If you wanted to talk, you should’ve called and left a message. I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”</p><p>Stewart tilted his head to the side to get a better glimpse of the blonde who was still perched atop the toilet seat, his heart beating impossibly faster than before. Roger didn’t know what was happening, and although it seemed silly, he wished he had accepted Tim’s offer that morning. Whatever would have happened there surely would be less humiliating than this.</p><p>“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Stewart concluded, “Will you?”</p><p>“Look, I-I don’t know who you are,” Roger stammered, the blush in his cheeks burning hot. “I just want to get to work.”</p><p>The tall man’s eyebrows furrowed together. “You work here?”</p><p>“He won’t be if you don’t wrap this up soon, Stewart,” Cheryl chimed in impatiently, tapping her fingers against the door.</p><p>Stewart heaved a frustrated sigh and ignored the manager’s remark, pushing past her into the small room and sticking his hand out to Roger. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet under better circumstances. I’m Stewart Copeland.” He smirked. “I own this place.”</p><p>*****</p><p>Brian and Chrissie walked through the university’s halls together, an air of tension surrounding them. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the previous night, their conversation weighing heavily on their minds and keeping them on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from one another. When morning came, they walked on eggshells around each other. They forced smiles on their faces when they dropped Liz off with Ruth. They waved to their colleagues as they passed by them. They even engaged in some small talk in the teachers’ lounge. But deep down, all they wanted to do was be alone and try to deal with their unresolved problem that had been festering long before Brian’s dream.</p><p>The pair turned the corner and were stopped in their tracks by the sight of someone waiting outside the headmistress’s office. They peeled themselves away from the wall and straightened their posture, adjusting the strap of their messenger bag. “Chrissie Mullen?”</p><p>“Yes?” the headmistress replied, leaning into Brian who looked curiously between the stranger and his wife. “How can I help you?”</p><p>“Hi, I’m Gordon Sumner,” he introduced himself, extending his hand out for a handshake, “I’m the replacement for, erm...” he tilted his head down and shoved a hand into his bag, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and unfolding it, “...Ray Foster?”</p><p>“Oh, yes!” Chrissie exclaimed, shaking her head and breaking away from her husband’s side, “Yes, I’m so sorry. I hope you haven’t been waiting here long.”</p><p>“Not long at all,” he assured her with a small grin as she fumbled with her keys and unlocked her office door, pushing it in.</p><p>“Why don’t you take a seat in my office?” the headmistress suggested, flashing the newest addition to the Imperial College staff a welcoming smile, “I’ll be in in just a short moment.”</p><p>The young substitute professor nodded his head in agreement and escaped inside the office, leaving Chrissie to return her attention to Brian, who raised a suspicious eyebrow.</p><p>“What happened to Ray?” the curly-haired professor asked, not knowing that the women’s studies teacher was due to take leave.</p><p>The headmistress bit her lip, averting her gaze to the floor.</p><p>Her blatant avoidance of the question made Brian certain that whatever happened must have been some sort of an emergency, especially since, just two days ago, Ray was giving him shit about his relationship with Chrissie and seemed perfectly healthy—or as healthy as a chain-smoking alcoholic could be. However, Brian also found it hard to believe that the emergency was family related, because although the two professors had never really considered themselves friends, he knew that Ray didn’t have any family. His parents were long gone, he had no siblings, his wife divorced him three years ago, and there were no children involved in the separation. That left only one other explanation.</p><p>“Is he okay?”</p><p>“I-I don’t know, Brian,” Chrissie stuttered, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear, “Probably.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It’s not something I can really discuss with you, Bri,” she asserted, a remorseful look in her eyes. It was in that moment that the professor realized how far he and the headmistress had come. What used to be an exhilarating, exciting, behind-closed-doors fling—full of laughter, surprise, and little gifts such as keys to the lift—had now become a real relationship, with responsibilities and boundaries that before they didn’t have to worry about.</p><p>He had no doubt in his mind that, a year ago, Chrissie would have spilled all the details right then and there without a moment of hesitation. She would have pulled him into one of the open classrooms, locked the door, and described to him the tragedy that led to the demise of the misogynistic women’s studies teacher like it was a story she was writing. Now she couldn’t even assure him that Ray was okay.</p><p>“We’ll talk later, yeah?” was all she said, snapping Brian out of the stupor he had fallen into with a quick kiss on his lips. She smiled before she slipped into her office, leaving the professor alone in the hall with the soft click of the door. He frowned and sulked off to his classroom, closing the door behind him and turning around—only to be thrown back into it by the sight of an unexpected guest.</p><p>“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”</p><p>“Paul, what the hell are you doing here?” the professor asked with wide eyes, his hand over his racing heart.</p><p>The janitor hopped down from his post atop the corner of Brian’s desk and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coveralls. “I just wanted to check in with you; see how you’re holding up after what happened,” he explained, taking slow strides in his direction.</p><p>Brian’s raised a curious eyebrow. “What happened?”</p><p>“You didn’t hear?” Paul pouted, stopping right in front of the taller man as a sly grin slowly tugged at the corners of his lips. “Oh, how naïve you still are, Brian, after all that’s changed in your pathetic excuse of a life.” The janitor chuckled under his breath and made a sharp turn with his heel, waltzing over to one of the desks in the front of the room. Brian swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and peeled himself away from the door, slipping his bag over his head and dropping it into his chair. “It’s quite a funny story, actually,” Paul divulged with a growing smirk, resting his chin atop his folded hands and his elbows on the desktop. “You want to hear it?”</p><p>The professor shimmied out of his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, sighing, “I would love to, Paul, but I’ve got a class in an hour or so that I need to prepare for. So, if you wouldn’t mind—”</p><p>“Oh, fuck your class. That sleazebag women’s studies teacher got jumped last night!”</p><p>Paul’s exclamation immediately caught Brian’s attention, knowing exactly who the janitor was referring to—<em>Ray</em>.</p><p>“To make matters worse...” Paul continued, moving to the edge of the chair he sat in and clinging onto the front edge of the desk, “...it happened at a gay bar. Can you believe it? A <em>gay bar.</em> I always knew something was off about him. Did you? He sure does seem to like you...always talking with you in the mornings and whatnot.”</p><p>Brian scoffed at the memory of his and Ray’s conversation yesterday morning, and how chats like that equated to Ray taking a fancy to him in Paul’s mind. “The only thing he likes about me is how embarrassing my reputation here is.” He turned to face the janitor and crossed his arms. “So, no, I didn’t know.”</p><p>“Maybe it’s for the best,” Paul suggested, sitting back, crossing his legs atop the desk, and resting his hands behind his head. “After all, being associated with someone like him wouldn’t be any better for your reputation than your affair with the headmistress. Would it?”</p><p>“Get your feet off my desk, Paul,” the professor muttered, not liking where the conversation was headed.</p><p>The janitor narrowed his eyes and threw his feet back to the floor, leaning forward and saying, “Look, Brian, I know everything that goes on in this school. I also know that you were at that same bar a little while ago—a good friend of mine told me <em>all </em>about it.”</p><p>Brian tried to suppress the blush that crept up in his cheeks. “Wh-Who is that?”</p><p>The widest grin yet broke out onto Paul’s face. “Think about it, Bri. Who else do you know goes to that bar?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Roger Taylor,” the blonde introduced himself, hesitantly placing his hand in Stewart’s to return the handshake and using it to pull himself up off the toilet seat. “I work here.”</p><p>The taller man grinned, opening his mouth to say that he figured as much when Roger told him that he wanted to get to work, but before any of that could be expressed, his voice was stolen by Cheryl’s.</p><p>“Great, now that we all know each other’s names, can we get this over with?” Her narrow eyes locked on Roger’s terrified ones. “He and I have some unfinished business to attend to.”</p><p>“The only business you need to be attending to, Cheryl, is running this place when I’m gone,” Stewart corrected her, turning around to face her and draining all the color from Roger’s face. <em>When he’s gone? </em>“That’s what I need to talk to you about.” <em>What is he talking about?</em></p><p>“Fine,” she surrendered, throwing a finger in his face, “But this better be quick.” The owner rolled his eyes and nudged her out of the bathroom doorway, trailing behind her after winking at Roger and tipping his head towards the café—giving him permission to start his shift. Roger nodded in understanding but stood still, his feet seemingly glued to the ground. It wasn’t until the taller blonde was out of sight that the floor freed him, pushing him out of the small room and over to the punch clock, where he snatched an apron and tied it quickly around his waist.</p><p>Within minutes, everyone’s favorite barista was behind the counter, trying his best to put on a brave face after the bizarre start to his day and forcing a smile at every compliment he received about his new haircut. However, he wasn’t <em>truly </em>there. Everyone who came in that morning could see that his mind was somewhere else. He was messing up nearly every other order, the teasing yet playful quips he served with every drink were lacking, and he couldn’t stop glancing over his shoulder to the door that led to the back.</p><p>Despite the distance and privacy that secluded Cheryl and Stewart from the rest of the establishment, their raised voices could be heard throughout the café; even outside. Although Roger didn’t catch everything that was said, he learned a lot about the owner that morning.</p><p>For starters, the café fell into his hands on accident, though accident wasn’t quite the right word to describe it. A better way to define the situation would be to say that the café had been <em>gifted</em> to him, after he and the original owner got high together one night. Cheryl believed Stewart coerced the original owner—her boyfriend, at the time—into handing over the keys, but the way Stewart saw it, the man was just feeling very generous that night and he was too stoned to say no.</p><p>Secondly, Stewart wanted to pass down the ownership to Cheryl for two reasons—the first being that it originally belonged to her boyfriend, and it only seemed right to give ownership to her. After all, she <em>had</em> been working there the longest and knew the place better than anyone, no matter how corrupt her management style was.</p><p>The other, more important reason Stewart wanted to promote Cheryl was that he was leaving for London and, as he so plainly put it, “I don’t plan on coming back this time.” He was a drummer who had started touring with an English band about two years ago, but they broke up recently and he had found someone else over there to start another band with. Despite loathing him with every fiber of her being, Cheryl argued that it would make more sense for him to stay at the café and run it like he should have been, but Stewart strongly felt like whatever he and that someone else were going to do was worth giving up everything he had in New York and taking his chances in London. The situation reminded Roger a lot of himself, only switch the two places around and replace the hope of success with the escape from a toxic past.</p><p>Once business died down, Roger found himself wiping down one of the tables and fantasizing about what London was like—having lost interest in the argument that definitely had transcended its definition of “quick.”</p><p>It had been a month or two since he last talked to Freddie, and everything his friend had caught him up on made him more and more homesick. Hearing about Brian, thanks to Freddie’s in with Paul, tugged at his heart even more. Roger wondered if Freddie mentioned what he did on purpose, to make him feel guilty about leaving London with Tim, but that would be breaking their agreement to not intervene with one another’s lives; to not judge the other person for what they do, regardless of what that was. It didn’t stop Roger from regretting his decision, though.</p><p>The slamming of the door to the back as it flew open startled the blonde and the few patrons who had lingered after the morning rush. Without saying a single word, Cheryl stormed past Roger, struggling to light a cigarette on her hurried way out. The blonde raised a suspicious eyebrow, but before he could investigate, a strong hand fell down on his shoulder.</p><p>“She’ll be back soon,” Stewart’s low, soothing voice hit Roger’s ear, his grip tightening ever so slightly as if he was trying to massage a knot out of the blonde’s shoulder, “She just needs a smoke break.”</p><p>“O—” He uncomfortably wiggled his way out of the owner’s grasp and clutched onto the worn-out rag he was using, holding it tight to his chest. “Okay.” The two of them stood there awkwardly, wanting to say something to the other person but not knowing what. Just as Stewart brought his hand to the back of his neck, ready to announce that he should be getting on his way, Roger blurted out, “So, uh, I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re leaving for London.”</p><p>“Yeah!” the owner exclaimed, lighting up, “Yeah, I was there a little while ago on tour and I met this guy at a show. We got talking, and we’re thinking about starting a band. I’ve already solved the problem of the distance between us, you know, by moving there, so now all we need to do is find a guitarist.”</p><p>“I play guitar,” Roger replied instantly, his cheeks turning a bright shade of red as he realized how off-putting his eagerness must have seemed. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing—sharing that bit of information about himself. It wasn’t like he could just up and leave New York to go back to London—that is, if the bloke would even have him. After all, they <em>had</em> just met, and not on the best terms.</p><p>However, Stewart did all but shatter the blonde’s hope, responding with a curious and interested, “You do?”</p><p>The blush in Roger’s cheeks intensified, and his grip on the rag tightened. “Y-Yeah. I mean, I haven’t played in a while, but I still know how. I can play other instruments too. Drums, mostly. I...I was even a music instructor at one point.”</p><p>Stewart chuckled in disbelief. “Wow, really?” The blonde nodded his head. “That’s awesome. How come you’re working in a coffee shop, then, instead of teaching music?”</p><p>“Oh, you know...” Roger muttered, moving to a nearby vacant table and beginning to wipe it down, hoping to buy himself some time to come up with an answer that wouldn’t scare the owner off. It was as simple as telling him that things at the last gig didn’t work out, but he felt as though that vague explanation would only warrant further interrogation.</p><p>
  <em>Why didn’t it work out? Did something happen? Was it your fault? Could you do anything to try to get it back? </em>
</p><p>It pained Roger to think about the answers to those questions, all leading back to the one person he blamed for putting him in a place like this. The worst part of all was that it wasn’t even Brian’s fault. The poor guy was just doing what was right; making up for his mistakes. He didn’t make Roger move to America, that was all on Roger. Brian wanted him to stay, and he said no.</p><p>
  <em>I said no.</em>
</p><p>“...it didn’t really pay much, and it’s expensive to live out here.”</p><p>“Tell me about it,” Stewart agreed, shoving his hands into his pocket and sauntering over to the table Roger had fixated on, working at an old, dried coffee stain that wouldn’t let up. He stood there patiently, waiting for Roger to meet his gaze, and when he didn’t—the blonde wishing he had kept quiet—Stewart cleared his throat and suggested, “Well, if you’re up for it, I’d love to hear you play sometime. Maybe we could get together and jam before I leave?”</p><p>The shorter blonde’s head snapped up.</p><p>“Just for fun,” the owner tacked on with a small grin, hoping to sway his decision. When Roger remained quiet—wide eyes locked on his—the corners of Stewart’s lips curled downward, and he asked with an uncharacteristic seriousness, “You do know what fun is, right?”</p><p>Roger straightened his posture, the ghost of the stain lingering on the table. “Yes.”</p><p>“Then let’s do it,” Stewart declared, taking Roger’s arm in one hand and pulling a marker out of his back pocket with the other. He bit the cap off and rolled Roger’s sleeve up, smirking at the tense blonde before bringing the marker to his pale skin. Roger’s eyes doubled in size as the black ink spelled out Stewart’s phone number. “Call me when you’re ready.” He capped the marker and smiled proudly. “I leave next Sunday.”</p><p>With that, the café owner walked out, the bell above the door ringing and breaking Roger out of the daze he’d slipped into staring at the numbers sprawled across his forearm. After scanning the coffee shop, only a few patrons still there, he retreated behind the counter and searched for a pen and pad, hastily scribbling down the seven digits from his arm once he found them. He quickly tore the sheet off and shoved it into his pocket, escaping to the back and into the bathroom where he turned on the faucets of the sink—water gushing from the spout and reminding him of the night before.</p><p>Roger blinked away the painful memory and began scrubbing at the number, knowing that if he returned home that night with it, Tim would catch on to him—stopping him before he could even realize what he wanted to do.</p><p>*****</p><p>“Brian?”</p><p>“H-Hi, Mary,” the professor stammered nervously, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jacket and swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, “Is Freddie home?”</p><p>His ex-girlfriend folded her arms over her chest and straightened her posture. “No, he’s not. Sorry.”</p><p>Brian waited for her to elaborate and disclose where he is. However, Mary remained silent, glaring at the tall man before her with the resentment that’s managed to last all these years. He didn’t understand why she was still so bitter. Aside from the white lie he told her about moving to America, he assumed that the two had parted ways amicably, for she hadn’t given him reason to believe any different. So, uncomfortably bringing a hand to the back of his neck, he asked, “Well, would you mind telling me where he is, then?”</p><p>“What’s it worth to you?”</p><p>The professor gritted his teeth, his frustration with Mary growing more with each passing second spent on the couple’s doorstep. “He and I have some catching up to do,” Brian answered as friendly as he could manage, even throwing on a small grin as he added, “It’s been a while since he and I talked, and I wanted to show him a picture of my daughter.” He pulled out the wallet-size photograph and showed it to Mary. “Her name’s Liz. She’s just a few months old, born in August.”</p><p>“Oh my god,” Mary gasped, snatching the picture of the infant out of the father’s hands to get a closer look at it. She melted at the sight of the baby girl, wishing she had one of her own. “She’s adorable, Brian,” the blonde gushed dreamily, “I’ve been trying to convince Freddie we should have one, but he always shuts the conversation down.”</p><p>“Strange,” the professor commented, his foot starting to tap the ground anxiously.</p><p>Mary sighed and handed the picture back to her ex-boyfriend, saying, “Yeah, I don’t know why, but he always gets so...so <em>weird </em>when I bring it up. It’s like he doesn’t want to even think about it.”</p><p>“Maybe he’s not ready to have kids,” Brian entertained her concern, slipping the photograph back into his wallet.</p><p>“Maybe,” she mumbled, pouting her lips and twirling a piece of her hair around her finger dejectedly. Brian shifted awkwardly, jumping when Mary took in a sharp breath and clutched his upper arms. “What if you talked to him about it? About being a father?” she suggested, her grip on him tightening and her eyes glimmering with newfound hope, “Maybe you could change his mind!”</p><p>The professor uneasily chuckled and gently pried her away from him. “You know what, Mary? I-I think I—” His voice was cut off, robbed by the realization of the opportunity Mary had presented him with and replaced with a small, appreciative grin. “I think that sounds like a wonderful idea. I will. I just don’t know where he is to do that.”</p><p>“Oh, he’s at Kensington Market,” the blonde readily revealed, a stark contrast from the cold shoulder she was giving the professor just minutes ago. “Just listen for his voice and you’ll know where his shop is. It’s really hard to miss.”</p><p>Brian nodded his head. “Got it.”</p><p>“And don’t tell him that I told you to talk to him about it, okay? Because if he knows I asked you to, he’ll probably shut down again and—”</p><p>“I won’t, Mary. Don’t worry.”</p><p>“Oh, good,” she smiled, clasping her hands together excitedly.</p><p>“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Mary,” the professor told her, backing away from the door, “Take care, will you?”</p><p>“Yes, and you take care of that beautiful baby of yours!” she called out to him, the corner of the professor’s lip twitching upward into a smirk as he retreated to his running car.</p><p>Thanks to Mary’s advice, it took Brian no time at all in finding Freddie at the Market—the dark-haired man’s voice drawing him to the shop where he was arguing with two security personnel.</p><p>“For the last time, I didn’t do it!” he cried, stomping his foot for added effect. “Roger did, and I’m not about to mess with them! He spent <em>hours</em> adjusting them, and he’ll kill me if they’re moved even a hair!”</p><p>“Look, Freddie, this is the fifth complaint we’ve received this month,” the short, stout guard explained, swollen hands steady on his holster, “If you don’t fix those mirrors, we’re going to have to shut you down. Owner’s orders.”</p><p>He scoffed. “How many times do I have to fucking tell you—” He stopped himself short when the professor stepped into the shop, looking the same as he did the first time Freddie saw him. “Brian!” the dark-haired man squealed, pushing through the pair of cops and charging towards him to squeeze him tight, “My god, I haven’t seen you in ages! What are you doing here?”</p><p>The slender, tall guard cleared his throat, regaining the annoyed shop owner’s attention.</p><p>“I know!” Freddie snapped, “Fix the fucking mirrors! You tell me every goddamn week!”</p><p>The two cops exchanged a quick, exhausted look before trudging out of the stall filled with eccentric clothes—the most recent additions coming from Roger’s closet—and glaring at the dark-haired man who retaliated by sticking his tongue out at them. Once they were out of sight, Freddie apologized to Brian and invited him in, sitting him down in one of the vintage armchairs set outside the problematic fitting rooms.</p><p>“Is everything okay?” the professor asked worriedly.</p><p>“Oh, yes,” Freddie assured him, waltzing over to the counter, “Those bastards just like to get on my nerves. If they really wanted me out, I wouldn’t still be here.” He slammed his hands down and flashed Brian his most brilliant smile. “But enough about me, what about you? What brings you to my home away from hell? Did you finally decide it’s time to get rid of that <em>drab</em> style of yours?”</p><p>Brian’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Uh, no, I-I actually came here to talk to you about something.”</p><p>“If it’s about Roger, I haven’t heard from him in a couple weeks,” the dark-haired man revealed, leaning against the counter and lighting a cigarette he pulled out from beneath the cash register—the machine relatively light in weight.</p><p>The professor’s cheeks turned red at the mention of the former music instructor’s name. “Actually, I...I came here to talk with you about what happened at the bar.”</p><p>Freddie blew out a steady stream of smoke. “Last night?” He straightened his posture. “Shit, how could I forget? It was absolutely dreadful. I barely knew the poor guy, but—”</p><p>“No, I-I mean when you were there with Roger and me. You told Paul about it.”</p><p>The shop owner stared at the curly-haired professor for a good while before biting his lip and asking, “Did I?”</p><p>“Yes, you did.” Brian stood up from the chair, a grim expression washing over his face. “And I think he wants to use it against me.”</p><p>“Use it against you?” Freddie echoed, laughing at the absurdity of his concern. “What on earth would he gain from telling everyone about that night? It’s not like you did anything. I mean, you hardly got plastered and then left before any of the fun began.”</p><p>The professor made his way over to the counter and placed his hands down on the smooth surface. “Look, Fred, I’m already on thin ice at the school. Okay? I always have been, and...and it was bad enough when word got ‘round that Chrissie and I were together and that we were having a baby—”</p><p>“Liz,” Freddie interrupted him, drawing another smoke from his cigarette all the while not breaking eye contact with the man standing across from him. He exhaled slowly, the smoke escaping his mouth from the side as he flicked the loose embers from the burning end of the white stick. “I know. Roger told me.”</p><p>Brian lit up. “He did?”</p><p>“Of course. He called me one day and told me you sent him a picture of her when she was first born...and that you named her after him.” The professor couldn’t control the blush that conquered his pale cheeks, the photograph and short letter a distant memory even though he sent it just months ago. He kept the letter brief in fears that if he wrote more, every effort he made in moving on would prove to be a waste of time. “I nearly died when he told me that. Oh, I thought it was the most romantic thing ever, Brian—naming your child after the man your heart truly belongs to. That girl of yours must have been <em>furious</em>.”</p><p><em>She was</em>, he immediately thought.</p><p>The professor recalled the hushed but heated argument that occurred in the hospital room that hot August morning. He didn’t win out of victory, though; Chrissie made sure of that with her reluctant and stubborn submission, accepting the name in exchange for Brian leaving the room to give her some space and retrieve a cup of ice chips. After being pushed away like that, it was hard to be happy about the small triumph. <em>Who could be?</em></p><p>“I know I would have been,” Freddie muttered, snapping his visitor out of the stupor he’d fallen into and taking another long drag. His eyebrows furrowed together in deep thought as he let the smoke slip past his parted lips before blurting out, “She knows about you and him, right?”</p><p>Brian swallowed nervously, gaining the courage to answer honestly. “Um, no, actually. Not that I know of.”</p><p>“<em>What?” </em>the dark-haired man practically yelled, his eyes widening in disbelief. “You’re kidding! You’ve got to be. How could she <em>not</em> know?”</p><p>“I-I don’t know, Freddie. Maybe she does, but that’s beside the point.”</p><p>“Beside the point? No, Brian, you’re smarter than this. I know you are,” he retorted somewhat harshly, flicking the burning cigarette in the professor’s direction, “Her not knowing has <em>everything</em> to do with why you’re here right now.” He smirked, picking up on the intensifying blush in his visitor’s cheeks. “You still love him, don’t you?”</p><p>“No,” Brian was quick to answer, going so far as to shake his head, “No, I can’t. I don’t. He...He left, Fred. He moved on, and so have I. I-I’m married now, and I have a daughter, and...and I don’t have feelings for him anymore.”</p><p>“Oh, come on, Brian. Stop being so naïve.” Freddie circled around the counter, leaning against it and adding a sort of intimacy to their conversation that it lacked before. “After all, why else would you have come to see me?”</p><p>The professor squirmed uncomfortably, tilting his head down and mumbling, “I-I came here because I need you to make sure that what you told Paul <em>stays</em> between you and Paul.” His apprehensive eyes flickered up from where they fell to his feet. “Okay? That’s all. Roger...Roger has nothing to do with it.”</p><p>Freddie narrowed his eyes and brought his cigarette back up to his lips, holding it there without drawing from it as he studied the tall, nervous man before him and let the awkward tension between them rise. He breathed in deeply and dropped his hand to the side, asking, “Why don’t you come to my house tonight and have a drink? That way you can loosen up and let me know what’s <em>really</em> bothering you. I’ll even pull out some of my old photo albums for you to look at and realize just how big a part Roger plays in all this. What do you say?”</p><p>Brian clicked his tongue in disbelief. “I’d say you’re crazy!”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Because I can’t come over tonight!”</p><p>The dark-haired man pounded his fist into the countertop, shouting, “Then what <em>can</em> you do, Brian? Because I’m trying real hard here, but I can’t think of a single <em>fucking</em> thing!”</p><p>The professor stared at him blankly, lips pressed together and hands clenched into fists by his sides. He racked his brain for an answer but came short of one. In the heat of the moment, he couldn’t think about the degrees he’d earned, or about the relationship he’d devoted himself to—despite his mind’s wandering eye—and the daughter he’d vowed to raise. Three things he’d done, yet he verbalized none of them, allowing Freddie to take an unsettling step closer to him and growl, “That’s what I thought.”</p><p>He spun around sharply and crossed the shop to fix a scarf on one of the mannequins. “I’ll see you at my house tonight,” the dark-haired man announced cheerfully, “Eight o’clock. Bring something strong.” He turned his head over his shoulder and smirked. “You’re going to need it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian passed through the halls of Imperial College with his head hung low, his bag bouncing by his side and his hands shoved into his pockets. By then, it was mid-afternoon, and the professor neglected to show up for two of his classes—his students reveling in the spontaneous day off. The catching-up Brian would have to do was the last thing on his mind, his visit to Kensington Market preoccupying his thoughts. The professor was practically on autopilot, miraculously making his way to the headmistress’s office and opening the closed door, only to find that she was already with someone.</p><p>“Oh, I-I’m so sorry,” he stammered with bright red cheeks, starting to retrace his steps, “I didn’t realize you were—"</p><p>“It’s fine, Brian,” she assured him, smiling and gesturing towards Gordon, perched atop her desk on the same side as her with his head turned over his shoulder, “We were just wrapping up with his orientation.”</p><p>“And she’s been <em>very</em> helpful,” Ray’s replacement slyly added, returning his attention to the headmistress who failed to disguise the wide grin that formed on her lips and the schoolgirl-like giggle that escaped her mouth. Brian raised a suspicious eyebrow at the banter that ensued, the headmistress playfully smacking the interim professor on the knee after he pinched her cheek.</p><p>The curly-haired professor loudly cleared his throat and reminded the two of his presence with a blunt, “So, you said you were almost done?”</p><p>An awkward tension quickly filled the room and prompted Chrissie to dismiss Gordon—telling him that, if he ever had any questions, he knew where to find her. Brian didn’t miss the wink Gordon gave her in response, or the smirk he adorned as he brushed shoulders with him on his way out. The professor couldn’t help but keep his eye on him as he escaped down the corridor, and the new blonde sensed it—glancing back at him with a devious look that sent a shiver down Brian’s back.</p><p>“Hey,” Chrissie’s voice snapped the professor out of the spell Gordon cast on him, luring him into her office with a great sense of reluctance on his end. It seemed as though Brian couldn’t take his eyes away from the interim professor, wanting—no, <em>needing</em>—to solve the mystery that surrounded his sudden arrival. Brian had a feeling that history was repeating itself, and just like this time last year, he wasn’t prepared for what was to come.</p><p>“Where have you been?” the headmistress asked as she watched the professor drop his bag into one of her chairs and plop himself down in the other one. When he didn’t immediately answer her question, his mind clearly elsewhere, she swallowed the lump that formed in her throat and explained, “I stopped by your classroom earlier to see if you wanted to get lunch, and you weren’t there.”</p><p>“I had to go see someone,” he told her bluntly, his eyes locked on the nameplate displayed at the front of her desk.</p><p>The headmistress leaned forward, clasping her hands together atop the notebook she kept for important dates and appointments. “Is everything okay?”</p><p>Brian sat there for a moment, stoic, his train of thought switching tracks as Freddie’s words began to repeat in his head. It pained him to admit it, but the dark-haired man was right. He <em>was</em> naïve. The reason he wanted Paul to keep quiet about the night at the bar <em>was </em>because of Roger, and worst of all, it didn’t matter that he was married and had a daughter. If that haunting dream was any indication of his feelings, he <em>did </em>still love Roger, and truth be told, he wasn’t so sure he could say the same about Chrissie.</p><p>“Brian?”</p><p>The professor took in a deep breath and disclosed, “I’m going out tonight.”</p><p>A relieved smile broke out on the headmistress’s face. “Really? That’s it? You’re just going out tonight?”</p><p>“Yes, I am,” Brian asserted, his words lacking in the confidence his straightened posture, crossed arms, and slightly lifted chin made up for. “Is there going to be a problem with that?”</p><p>Chrissie giggled and stood up. “No, actually, it’s perfect.” Those two final words shattered Brian’s gathered courage within seconds, his baffled gaze following her as she circled the desk and leaned against it, right in front of her husband. “A friend invited me over for dinner tonight,” she revealed, reaching out and caressing the professor’s cheek—her thumb swiping across the blush that surfaced, “So, I figured I’d give you the night off to relax, you know, clear your mind. But if you want to go out, that’s fine too.” She smirked. “Just as long as you find your way back home before sunrise. We <em>do</em> still have to show up for work tomorrow.”</p><p>“What about Liz?” the concerned father wondered.</p><p>“Oh, I’m taking her with me,” Chrissie answered, as if her husband should’ve known, “Yeah, this friend of mine, I met her a few weeks back while shopping for some new clothes at Biba. She was helping me, and we got talking, and when I told her I had a daughter, she nearly lost her wits, she was so excited. She insisted on meeting her, so...” Her voice trailed off when she noticed the unconvinced look on her husband’s face, but that didn’t stop her from finishing softly, “...I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”</p><p>The professor sat there in silence, staring at the headmistress like she was the one who lost her wits instead of her new friend. The woman sitting before him was acting very unlike the Chrissie he knew and tried his hardest to love, but she could say the same about him. Even though they lived in the same house, worked at the same university, and slept in the same bed, it was almost like they didn’t know each other. At least, not like they once thought they did. Hell, even Brian couldn’t recognize himself these days. He hadn’t ever since—</p><p>“I think it’ll be good, Brian,” Chrissie murmured, drawing the professor out of his thoughts by setting her feet down on the ground and wandering over to one of the bookshelves embedded in the wall—the soft click of her heels reverberating off the walls as her finger dragged along the dusty spines. “Maybe a night apart is what we need to get back to the way things used to be.”</p><p>Brian’s eyebrows furrowed together. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I’m not an idiot, Brian.” She turned to face him, the smile that curled her lips upward just moments ago now gone. “I know what you’ve been thinking about—I mean, you said it yourself last night—and I know that if things were different, you’d be with him right now. The only reason you’re with me is because of what happened.”</p><p>“Chrissie—”</p><p>“Look, I’ve been through this before; I know what it looks like. I see it in your eyes and—” the headmistress scoffed, closing her eyes and having the tears that began to blur her vision stream down her cheeks, “—and I just don’t want history repeating itself.”</p><p>The professor stood up and crossed the room, attempting to join his wife only to have her slip around him and escape to the opposite corner. He sighed and muttered, “You don’t have to worry about that.”</p><p>Chrissie chuckled in disbelief, folding her arms over her chest and shaking her head. “Oh, that makes me feel <em>so</em> much better. Thank you, Brian, really.”</p><p>“I mean it, Chrissie. I’m not like him!”</p><p>“Oh, you’re <em>exactly </em>like him!” she cried, spinning around to reveal her glistening eyes and dampened cheeks, “For fuck’s sake, Brian, I know you—”</p><p>A sharp knock echoed through the office, cutting her voice off and attracting both the professor’s and headmistress’s attention to the opened doorway where John stood. He held his books close to his chest and wore a concerned expression on his face. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”</p><p>“Yes, Mr. Deacon, I’m afraid it is,” Chrissie mumbled, swiping at the streams that streaked her embarrassed blush and sniffling, “Can whatever it is that you need to discuss with me wait until tomorrow?”</p><p>“Of course,” he murmured, his apprehensive eyes flickering over to the despondent professor. He didn’t maintain the inquisitive gaze for long, though, shifting his attention back to Chrissie and saying, “I’m sorry for interrupting. I didn’t know—”</p><p>“It’s alright, John,” the headmistress snapped, a small grin pricking at the corners of her previously quivering lips and sending the hesitant student off with the promise of seeing him tomorrow. Thankfully, the boy closed the door on his way out, giving the couple the privacy they needed to continue their conversation that had taken a rather painful and unexpected turn. Surprisingly or unsurprisingly, it was Brian who first broke the silence that blanketed over the two of them—disturbed only by the ticking of the small clock situated at the corner of the headmistress’s desk that read 3:40.</p><p>“I’m not him, Chrissie,” he repeated, his voice just above a whisper and his eyes reluctant to meet his wife’s. He held onto one of the bookshelves and took in a deep breath, explaining, “I would never hurt you the way he did. I couldn’t. I <em>can’t</em>.”</p><p>“Only because he’s not here,” Chrissie choked, the tears she’d suppressed when John entered the room returning with full force. Her hands came up, disguising the ugly expression her face contorted into as she tried to stop the despair that washed over her.</p><p>Driven by a combination of compassion and guilt, Brian flew across the room and took his wife into his arms, holding her body that trembled with sobs close to his. They stood there like that for a while, the headmistress trying to calm herself down while the professor racked his brain for something he could say to save their struggling relationship.</p><p>The two had been living in a world of fantasy up until this point, trying to make the most out of what happened. God knows that it wasn’t what either of them wanted—at least not so soon—but they’d made their choices and had to live with the consequences, and the only way to do that was to put on brave faces and act like the couple everyone expected them to be.</p><p>It wasn’t difficult when they busied themselves with getting married before Chrissie started to show, making it on time to the necessary appointments, decorating the nursery, and learning as much as they could about parenting from books their close friends and families recommended.  However, once Liz arrived, those roles that Brian and Chrissie knew they had to take on came to the forefront and hit them harder than they anticipated. It was taxing, being married so quickly and having to raise a baby girl shortly thereafter, but they didn’t have another choice...at least, not one that wouldn’t be wrong.</p><p>“Hey, look at me,” Brian croaked, pulling away from his wife and bringing his hands up to her reddened cheeks. He stared right into her bloodshot eyes, seeing all the sorrow they contained, and said with as much conviction as he could muster with a breaking and conflicted heart, “What matters is that I’m with you now, okay? That’s <em>all </em>that matters, Chrissie, and nothing is going to change that.”</p><p>*****</p><p>Night fell over New York City, taking its sweet time. Roger swore that the clocks ran slower that day after his encounter with Stewart, and he hated to admit it, but part of him wished that Cheryl hadn’t forgotten about the business she insisted they had to take care of. It wasn’t that Roger particularly <em>wanted </em>what his manager offered, but he figured it was better than working his full shift without the distraction of being whisked away. He never had to work so hard in his life to keep busy, and once it was time to leave, he’d never been more relieved or determined to call that number still faintly on his arm.</p><p>As soon as he arrived at the bar, Roger pushed through the back door—early, for once—and headed for the payphone that hung from the wall and wasn’t covered in as much graffiti as the ones on the streets. The blonde only got as far as the dial tone before an unexpected voice startled him.</p><p>“Holy shit, is that who I think it is?”</p><p>Roger turned his head to see Geoff descending the staircase in the back of the bar on wobbly legs. The blonde knew that walk all too well, and a small part of him envied it—the days when he made a living by lying face-down and pretending he was somewhere else for an hour or so, the money in his waistband indicating the end of his shift. However, he didn’t miss the shame that accompanied his returns to reality, or the walks home.</p><p>“Goddammit, Rog,” Geoff scoffed playfully, approaching the blonde and weaving his fingers into the shorter locks. A smirk appeared on his face as he dropped his hands to his sides, declaring, “I don’t remember telling you to make yourself the best looking one in this joint.”</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes and suspended the phone back in its cradle, pivoting to face his coworker and replying, “Really? I thought you did.”</p><p>“Don’t be cheeky with me, baby,” Geoff warned, smiling. The blonde mirrored the facial expression and took the subsequent light blow to his arm with a slight flinch. A short wave of awkwardness washed over the pair before Geoff chuckled and said, “Man, I can<em>not</em> get over your new look. What does your boyfriend think about it? Has he seen it yet? Oh, I’m sure he’s going to love it.”</p><p>A blush immediately rose in Roger’s cheeks, the embarrassed confession of, “It was actually him who, uh, who helped me with it,” slipping past his lips.</p><p>“No way,” Geoff replied, the blonde nodding his head in affirmation. The prostituting bartender brought his hand to his chest and pouted his lips out. “Ugh, that is so cute. You guys are <em>total</em> relationship goals.”</p><p>The red in Roger’s cheeks deepened, wanting to tell his coworker that he wouldn’t be saying that if he knew how awful his boyfriend treated him most of the time. Little did Roger know that meeting Tim would only perpetuate Geoff’s claim, because that night, Tim decided to pay his boyfriend a visit—finding himself bored at home and tired of answering the last night calls that left him unsatisfied and yearning for a pleasure of his own.</p><p>“<em>Tim</em>?” Roger asked with widened eyes as the brunette approached the bar he stood behind—a sly smile stretched across his face.</p><p>“Hi, I’ll have one vodka and tonic.” He slipped onto one of the stools and clasped his hands atop the counter. “And go heavy on the vodka. I’m not driving tonight.”</p><p>Roger shook his head in disbelief. “W-What are you doing here? How did you know—”</p><p>“Roger, there’s only so many gay clubs in this city. It wasn’t <em>that</em> hard to find you.” The corner of Tim’s lips perked up into a smirk. “Besides, I know you can’t let go of all this.” His eyes flickered up to the blonde’s shorter locks. “No matter how hard you try.”</p><p>The bartender heaved a sigh and started preparing his boyfriend’s requested drink, muttering, “Maybe you’re right.” The three simple, unelaborated-on words raised Tim’s eyebrow in suspicion, but before he could gather the wits to interrogate him, Roger slammed a glass down on the counter and blurted out, “I met someone today.”</p><p>The brunette folded his arms over his chest and straightened his posture. “You did?”</p><p>“Yeah.” The blonde snatched a nearby bottle and flipped it over, a clear liquid spilling from the narrow pour spout and into the glass. “He owns the café I work at.”</p><p>“And what, did he give you a promotion or something?” Tim attempted to guess where his boyfriend was taking this story, hoping that his instinctual premonitions were wrong.</p><p>Roger placed the bottle down and turned his back to the brunette, searching the collection of spirits and mixes that lined the wall. “Sort of. Maybe. I don’t know yet.” He plucked one bottle from the back and returned to the counter, adding tonic to the quarter-filled glass.</p><p>“What do you mean you don’t know yet?”</p><p>“I mean, I don’t know yet,” the blonde repeated himself bluntly, nearly filling the drink to the top of the glass and setting the bottle beside it. He reached across the bar and snatched a lemon wedge from the dish, fixing the yellow garnish onto the rim of the cup and pushing it towards his boyfriend. “Here. Vodka and tonic.” He couldn’t help the <em>r </em>sound that followed the first half of the drink’s name—his English accent still holding on despite the year he’s spent in America. Jay’s worked hard at teaching him how to say it right, but the boss’s efforts were met with much disappointment—the blonde struggling to forget the dialect he grew up with and adopt a new one.</p><p>Tim reluctantly accepted the drink and took a sip from it, his eyes narrowing at Roger as he tried to figure him out. It only had been a couple of days, but he noticed a change happening in his boyfriend. The brunette didn’t know what that change was exactly, but he had a feeling that wasn’t <em>only</em> going to affect Roger—it was going to affect him too.</p><p>Everything Tim did was out of the need to keep Roger by his side. He was the absolute love of his life, and he didn’t know what else to do to make him stay, because even making it just the two of them—moving to a place where they had no friends, no family, and no one to fall back on—proved unsuccessful. He still felt like they were growing apart. The closest they’d been in months was in that bathroom the night before, Roger sitting complacently on the tub’s edge—casually taking swigs of room temperature beer—while Tim snipped away at the uneven locks of hair, and for the first time in a while, they two of them just...talked.</p><p>The conversation was light, innocent, and helped pass the time that would’ve otherwise dragged on painfully, each man eventually yelling at the other for something they did or said. No arguing ensued, though, and when Tim was finished, he stood Roger in front of the mirror in anticipation of his reaction. He feared the blonde would be enraged, for the resulting look was something that he hadn’t tried in ages, but to his surprise, Roger turned around and crashed his lips into his. Tim instantly tasted the alcohol on the blonde’s tongue but reveled in the previously denied affection he was receiving.</p><p>Before he knew it, they were stumbling over each other’s feet and tugging at one another’s clothes. A shocked gasp escaped Tim as Roger pushed him back onto their bed, tearing off the garments that hung loosely from his limbs and climbing on top of him. Tim knew he’d be a fool not to follow the blonde’s lead, and so he did—quite eagerly.</p><p>Those fleeting moments of passion between them came too far and few to define their relationship, but they did remind the couple of how good things could be when Roger wasn’t trying to recreate himself, and when Tim wasn’t exploiting his boyfriend for a cheap pound. It was sad, how they only got along when they pretended to be people they weren’t; when they slipped back into their old selves. The problem was, they weren’t teenagers anymore. And they never would be.</p><p>Snapping Tim out of the morose daze he fell into, reminiscing about last night and the way Roger’s hands trailed up and down his sides, his soft lips grazing his skin, someone walked up behind the bartender and jostled him, holding onto his upper arms and saying something that didn’t register in the brunette’s mind. Tim cautiously set his drink down on the bar and straightened his posture, watching as the muffled conversation continued to unfold before him—laughs shared under their breaths; their eyes flickering between each other and Tim until they landed on the latter.</p><p>“Geoff, this is Tim,” Roger introduced the two, raising his hand in his boyfriend’s direction before shifting it over to the stranger, “Tim, this is Geoff.”</p><p>“You did a phenomenal job on your boy, Tim,” Geoff complimented him, wrapping his arm around Roger’s back and pulling him in for a side-hug that ignited a spark of jealousy in the brunette. However, Tim refrained from jumping over the counter and instead forced a smile on his face, watching as Geoff pinched the blonde’s cheek and added, “It was about time he got his New York City makeover.”</p><p>“Is that even a thing?” Roger wondered aloud, looking over at his coworker.</p><p>“It is when you’re trying to reinvent yourself,” he replied, grinning widely, “All you’ve got to do now is lose the accent and then you’ll be just like the rest of us.”</p><p>Tim cleared his throat, regaining the two men’s attention. “I, for one, think he’s fine just the way he is.” He clenched his jaw and locked eyes with the blonde, tacking on tersely, “He’s <em>always</em> been fine just the way he is.”</p><p>A somber look washed over Roger’s face, struggling to find the truth in his boyfriend’s words. Even Geoff couldn’t hold back the chuckle that slipped past his lips. “No need to get worked up over there, Timmy. I’m just messing with him a little.”</p><p>“It’s Tim,” the blonde corrected his coworker in a whisper, stealing the opportunity from the brunette whose reaction would have most likely ended up with him being kicked out of the establishment and Roger losing his job, “Just Tim.”</p><p>“Oh, my sincerest apologies,” Geoff replied with mocking sincerity, going so far as to raise a hand to his chest and adorning his face with a remorseful expression. “What can I do to make up for it?”</p><p>“How about you leave my boyfriend alone and do your job?” Tim suggested rather harshly, earning an eye roll from the blonde and a scoff from the other bartender.</p><p>“Someone must have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” Roger’s coworker observed, resting his hands on his hips.</p><p>The brunette slammed his hands down on the counter and shot up from the chair, leaning over the counter and exclaiming, "You know what? I did!”</p><p>“Tim, please,” Roger begged with pleading eyes, “Not here.”</p><p>“I can tell,” Geoff murmured, ignoring the blonde’s warning as the corner of his lip deviously curled upward. He suddenly rounded the bar, joining the crowd that the counter typically separated the employees from, and hooked arms with Tim. “Why don’t you and I go upstairs for a bit? I’ve got a special cure for people who wake up on the wrong side of the bed.”</p><p>Tim violently shook the bartender off him and harshly asked, “Why the hell would I go upstairs with you?”</p><p>“Because you told me to do my job,” he answered, not allowing the brunette’s sour attitude to affect him like he intended it to, “And it’s my job to make people like you feel better. Come on.” He deftly grabbed Tim’s hand and dragged him away, the brunette looking back at Roger for help. The blonde helplessly shrugged his shoulders, watching as his boyfriend and his coworker escaped upstairs—the strange beginning to a beautifully disastrous friendship.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey, how do I look?” Chrissie asked Brian, stealing her husband’s attention away from Liz, mid-nappy change. The professor reluctantly turned his head over his shoulder, his unexpectant eyes falling upon the slim figure standing in the doorway—curves expertly wrapped in a tight black dress, small feet carefully secured in a pair of matching stilettos, long hair elegantly clipped back, and lips stained purposefully with a dark rouge. In all the time the pair had been seeing one another, not once had Brian seen his wife so dressed up. It almost made him wonder who this friend she was seeing really was.</p><p>“Well?” the headmistress urged when her husband failed to give her an answer, too tongue-tied to even think of what to say.</p><p>He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and stuttered, “Y-You look good.”</p><p>“Just good?” Chrissie whined, disheartened by Brian’s response.</p><p>“You look beautiful,” the professor quickly corrected himself, flashing her a reassuring grin that contrasted the embarrassed blush rising in his cheeks. Chrissie scoffed and slunk back into the hallway to their room, leaving Brian to finish fixing Liz’s nappy with a nervous feeling building in his stomach.</p><p>He didn’t like where they left things that afternoon, their problems even bigger than before. Brian didn’t want to be <em>that </em>guy, but he wished his wife wasn’t going out that night. He knew he was planning to do the same thing, but he would stay home if it meant getting rid of the tension that had poisoned their once blissful atmosphere. Even Liz could sense the dissonance resonating between her parents, her watchful eyes glistening with tears and her little lips quivering in preparation to part and make room for the high-pitch screams that would promptly fill the house. However, before she could get the chance, a car horn sounded from outside.</p><p>“Oh, that’s her!” Chrissie exclaimed, reappearing in the doorway and entering the room. She joined Brian’s side, and even though she was standing right there—their arms brushing—the professor felt like she wasn’t really there. She was in a world all her own, focused on keeping her baby from crying as she lifted her up off the changing table. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she glanced up at Brian and murmured, “Just be safe tonight, okay? We won’t be home too late, but that doesn’t mean you have to come home early too.”</p><p>The professor nodded his head, though really, he wanted to tell her he was staying home and that she should too. That suggestion would never manifest itself, because before it could, Chrissie got up on her tiptoes and planted a simple kiss on her husband’s cheek. She smiled at him before picking up her daughter’s hand and waving goodbye, the professor unable to hold back the grin that appeared on his lips. However, that smile only lasted for a short moment, disappearing as soon as the headmistress and their daughter left the room. Chrissie was right, Brian realized—Liz <em>was </em>the only reason the two were still together.</p><p>“Bye, Brian!” she called from downstairs, robbing him of the chance to respond with the closing of the front door. The professor gravitated towards the window, watching as Chrissie made her way down the walkway—her friend getting out of the car to greet her. The evening shadows masked her features, disguising her identity. Brian heaved a sigh and plopped himself down in the rocking chair, swaying back and forth a few times on the curved pieces of wood. He stared at the clock perched atop the small dresser. Half past six. An hour and a half until Freddie expected him. An hour and a half to choose to focus on the future or revisit the past.</p><p>Meanwhile, as Chrissie fixed the baby carrier into the backseat, the driver leaned against her side of the vehicle with arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed. Her gaze was locked on the nursery’s window, the silhouette that previously occupied it consuming her mind. She knew that silhouette like the back of her hand.</p><p>“You didn’t tell me you were with Brian,” Chrissie’s friend muttered, only snapping out of the trance the shadowed figure put her in when the car door behind her clicked shut.</p><p>“Didn’t I?” the headmistress retorted distractedly, staring at Liz through the glass—the baby girl raising her chubby, little hands out to her mother.</p><p>“No. I would’ve remembered if you told me you were with Brian May.”</p><p>“Oh, sorry, Mary. I guess I didn’t,” Chrissie murmured, taking a deep breath and finally breaking away her gaze from her daughter, bringing it to her new friend and suggesting, “Why don’t we get going?”</p><p>“He’s trouble, you know,” Mary shared as she spun around, the two women slipping into the vehicle and strapping themselves in. “Brian, he and I dated a while back.” Chrissie’s apprehensive eyes flickered over to her, but her new friend didn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with searching for her keys and explaining, “We weren’t together very long, and obviously things didn’t work out, but if there’s one thing I learned from being with him is that you can’t trust a single thing he says.”</p><p>Chrissie scoffed, looking out at the other side of the street and resting her head in her hand. “Tell me about it.”</p><p>Mary found her keys in the cup holder and turned on the ignition, the engine roaring to life and nearly drowning out her talebearing comment of, “So, you must know then.”</p><p>The headmistress’s smile slowly faded, her head turning in Mary’s direction. For the first time that night, she had her full attention. “Know what?”</p><p>She met Chrissie’s poignant gaze, the corner of her lip twitching up into a smirk. “Oh my god, you don’t. Do you?” The wide-eyed, wordless stare from the headmistress was enough an answer for the driver, eliciting an excited giggle from her. “Oh, Chrissie,” she shifted the car into drive, “you have <em>so </em>much to learn.”</p><p>With that, Mary pulled away from the curb and sped down the street, Chrissie glancing back at her daughter—her worst fears coming true.</p><p>*****</p><p>Chrissie anxiously bounced Liz on her leg as she watched Mary fill her wine glass nearly to the brim, the latter smiling at the former before she went to fill her own. The headmistress sat forward and snatched the glass up from the coffee table, bringing the dark red substance to her lips and tilting her head back to down the drink, her eyes wandering over to the man occupying the armchair adjacent to the couch. His own gaze narrowed, mimicking her actions as he drank from a cocktail that he had prepared for himself.</p><p>Neither of them had said it, but they both remembered that day a year ago when Brian nervously introduced him as an exchange student. After all, the headmistress could never forget such a bold meeting—the dark-haired man confidently introducing himself and telling her forthright of his association with the blonde who turned her entire world upside down. Had Freddie not told her that, perhaps she wouldn’t have such a strong opposition to his presence, but knowing that he was friends with the enemy—most likely keeping in touch with him, and worse yet, keeping Brian updated too—left the headmistress feeling uneasy. It made her question what she’d gotten herself into.</p><p>When Chrissie set her empty glass down on the table, her leg bouncing a little faster, she blurted out, “What’s he doing here?”</p><p>Mary quickly glanced over at her boyfriend before returning her attention to the drinks and filling Chrissie’s once more. “Oh, he’s just waiting for a friend. He won’t be here long.”</p><p>“I can be here as long as I want, darling,” Freddie chimed in, running his finger around the salted rim of his glass. “It’s my house too, you know.”</p><p>“That’s not what the deed says,” she reminded him pettily, shaking the last few drops of the wine into Chrissie’s glass and leaving the room before he could respond—announcing she’d be back with more.</p><p>The dark-haired man rolled his eyes and leaned forward, tapping his fingers against his almost empty cocktail. He heaved a sigh and brought his gaze back up to the headmistress—but not before looking at the baby girl in her lap and being reminded of the reason that his friend moved to America. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here tonight,” he muttered.</p><p>“I didn’t know,” she whispered, defending herself on those simple three words alone. That’s what it all boiled down to anyways; that’s what it <em>always </em>boiled down to.</p><p>“You don’t seem to know a lot of things, Chrissie,” he observed bluntly, taking the last sip of his prepared drink and standing up from the armchair. Towering over her, he tilted his glass in her direction and growled, “You’re the reason he’s not here right now, you know that?” Without saying his name, Chrissie knew exactly who Freddie was referring to. “If it weren’t for you and your <em>fucking</em> baby, he could’ve finally left him.” Liz began to whimper—her eyes glistening with tears. “He could’ve finally seen that he doesn’t have to put up with—”</p><p>“Put up with what?” Mary cut him off, reentering the room and shifting her focus between her boyfriend and her new friend who had taken her daughter into her arms and was trying to calm her before she burst out crying.</p><p>The headmistress and the dark-haired man exchanged a silent glance, trying to agree on an answer to give her. When they couldn’t, the task seemingly impossible, Freddie made the executive decision to tell his girlfriend, “We were just talking about how we shouldn’t have to put up with the lack of food this gathering has.” Mary’s jaw dropped in offense. “I’m going to go start dinner, darling,” he announced, patting her on the cheek in a patronizing manner and sauntering off to the kitchen.</p><p>“But you don’t even know how to cook!” she reminded him.</p><p>“I’ll figure it out!” he called back, his voice echoing through the house.</p><p>“No, Freddie, you’re going to mess it up!” the blonde whined, rushing out of the room. Chrissie took this opportunity to gather her things and head for the door with her daughter, knowing that no amount of wine in the world could make this night any less awkward or more comfortable. Before she could get even one foot over the threshold, though, Mary’s timid voice hit her ear. “Hey, where are you going?”</p><p>The headmistress pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut, blinking away the tears that pricked them as Freddie’s harsh words played over again in her head. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, turning around and answering, “I’m sorry, Mary, but this was a mistake.”</p><p>“What? Why?” the blonde rushed towards her, clutching onto her upper arms and telling her, “I had so many good stories to tell you!”</p><p>“I don’t know if I want to hear those stories anymore, Mary,” Chrissie murmured, adjusting her hold on Liz who whimpered, dangerously close to a full breakdown. “I’m sorry,” she apologized, shaking her head in regret, “I just...I don’t think I’m ready to go out like this yet. I thought I was, but...” Her voice trailed off, her gaze shifting down to her daughter who looked right back at her, staring with eyes that consumed her with an immense amount of guilt.</p><p>“Please,” Mary begged, pulling the headmistress out from her darkening thoughts, “We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to. I mean, I didn’t even know you were with him when I invited you. I just...I got excited when I found out that we had something in common.” Chrissie frowned. “Come on, we haven’t even had dinner yet. Please stay. I haven’t gotten to play with your baby yet.”</p><p>The headmistress raised a suspicious eyebrow, spotting Freddie standing in the doorway behind them—one leg crossed over the other, hands tucked into his pockets, and lips drawn into a straight line. She clenched her jaw and returned her attention to Mary, saying, “Fine. I’ll stay, just as long as he doesn’t touch our food.”</p><p>A smile appeared on the delighted blonde’s face. “Deal.”</p><p>*****</p><p>As two o’clock came and went, Jay rounded up the few stragglers and ushered them out of the bar, ignoring their drunken pleas for one more drink or a quick trip to the bathroom as he locked the doors and turned around with rolling eyes. Roger smirked and finished up cleaning the bar with another coworker of his, bidding her and his boss a goodnight after clocking out. While they left, Roger ventured upstairs in search of Geoff and his boyfriend, who hadn’t come down all night.</p><p>He thought they might have slipped out the back, but when he asked some of the other prostitutes who came down for a refresher, they told him they were still holed up in Geoff’s room—they had been ever since they went up there. Slightly nervous of what he would walk in on, the blonde knocked on the closed door before cracking it open, peering into the room filled with a thick haze that dimmed the neon green light illuminating it. Roger immediately began to cough, the pungent atmosphere seeping its way into his lungs unwelcomed.</p><p>“Hey, about time you showed up!” Geoff greeted him, his words drawn out and his body slumped against the couch that was rarely used for anything other than a quick fuck. Sitting beside him—head resting on his shoulder and a cigarette tucked lazily in the corner of his slightly parted lips—was Tim. His eyelids were heavy, but the brunette refused to let them fall, keeping instead a narrow, trancelike gaze that locked on the pair of glossy, size thirteen platform shoes that had been tossed into the corner.</p><p>“I had to close up,” Roger explained, his eyes starting to sting. After another quick bout of coughs, he mustered the strength to ask, “So this is your special cure, huh?”</p><p>The other bartender chuckled. “Only for people whose boyfriend works with me.”</p><p>A small grin appeared on the blonde’s face as he ran a hand through his hair. “Well, is he ready to go home?”</p><p>“Oh, no,” Geoff answered, shaking his head, “No, not yet. He’s not going anywhere for a least a couple more hours.”</p><p>“<em>A couple more hours?</em>”</p><p>“Yeah, he’s pretty out of it.” He looked over at Tim and gave him a slight shake, the brunette groaning and slowly peeling himself away from the bartender. He fell to the side and hugged the stained couch cushions—the sight stirring Roger’s stomach more than the noxious fumes permeating the air. “Don’t worry, though. I’ll bring him home for you, Rog.”</p><p>The blonde nodded in thoughtless agreement before his eyebrows furrowed together. “But you don’t even know where we live,” he pointed out, crossing his arms.</p><p>Geoff shot an index finger in his direction. “You’re right.” He shot up from the couch and flew out of the room, spinning Roger around and drawing him into the hallway where he watched his coworker escape to one of the rooms down the hall—specifically, the one he brought Roger into to make him look less “like shit” following Cheryl’s punishment for being late. The blonde rested his hands on his hips and listened to the loud shuffling coming from the room, jumping when Geoff came back out and approached him with a scrap of paper torn from one of the magazines and a stick of purple eyeliner. “Write it down for me. I’ll find my way.”</p><p>Roger stared at the two items skeptically before heaving a sigh, too tired to argue, and taking them into his possession. “You just have to hop on the subway and take it to the terminal with the huge peace sign spray-painted on the wall,” he said as he scribbled down his and Tim’s address, “Once you get back up to the streets, take a right and—”</p><p>“I’ve got it, Rog,” Geoff interrupted him with a smirk as the blonde handed over the glossy strip with reddened cheeks, “This isn’t my first time navigating the Big Apple, you know.”</p><p>The blonde’s eyes flickered back into the room where Tim had slid off the couch and now lied on the floor, undisturbed by the change of surroundings. He took in a deep breath and slipped his hands into his pockets. “I know, it’s just...I’m usually the one bringing him home.”</p><p>“Well tonight, that’s my responsibility,” Geoff declared, sinking back into the room and scooping Tim up in his arms—the brunette groaning once more as the bartender situated him back on the sofa. “Take the night off, why don’t you? Do something you wouldn’t be able to do with him around.”</p><p>Roger instinctively glanced down at the gray smear on his forearm, catching himself in the act and rolling his sleeve back down. “Are you sure about this, Geoff?” he asked, “I can take him home; it’s no problem.”</p><p>“Jesus, Roger,” he chuckled, swiping the drool that dripped from the corner of Tim’s parted lips, “How long has it been since the last time you had the night to yourself?” The blonde remained quiet, encouraging Geoff to answer his own question, “That’s what I thought. Too long, so stop worrying so much and have some fun for once. You’re in New York City, for fuck’s sake.”</p><p>Roger bit his lip, standing in the doorway for a little more before slinking away from it, forcing himself not to look back as he descended the staircase and left the bar. On the subway, Roger sat forward—his back hunched, his elbows resting atop his thighs, and his hands clutching onto the piece of paper adorned with Stewart’s number. He was so engrossed in the seven digits he almost missed his stop. However, as soon as he slipped into the dark apartment, ignoring Tim’s friend’s pass at him, he plopped himself down on the couch and dialed the café owner with a sense of urgency he lacked when calling Brian the other night.</p><p>He brought the phone up to his ear and listened to the nerve-racking ring, his heart beating faster and harder with each iteration of the tone. Just as he was about to hang up, ready to call it a night and wait for Geoff to bring Tim back home, the line picked up. </p><p><em>“Yello,”</em> the voice on the other end of the line sounded—the greeting so casual and laid-back, it threw the blonde off.</p><p>“Stewart?”</p><p><em>“Roger!”</em> he exclaimed, <em>“I’ve been expecting your call. ‘Surprised it took you this long. Ready to rock?”</em></p><p>This was too easy—so easy that Roger questioned whether this was really happening. From the moment his shift ended to Geoff’s insistence that he leave his boyfriend with him and take the night for himself to Stewart’s insomnia-driven invitation, it all seemed too perfect. Things had never fallen into place so well for the blonde, and it terrified him. He was certain that at any moment, he’d wake up either in bed or on the subway, disappointed that he missed out on possibly the only opportunity he’d get to abandon this less-than-desirable excuse of a life and go back to where he truly belonged; to <em>who </em>he truly belonged.</p><p>Taking childish precautions, wanting to make sure this <em>was </em>happening, Roger dared to pinch himself—a sharp jolt of pain coursing through his arm. “Yup,” he blurted out, simultaneously assuring himself of the reality of the situation and answering Stewart’s question.</p><p><em>“Awesome!”</em> the taller of the two blondes replied. <em>“Well, I live above the café, and my door’s always open, so just come on over when you’re ready.”</em></p><p>An excited grin tugged at the corners of the blonde’s lips, only to be wiped away seconds later with the remembrance that, “I-I don’t have a guitar.” He covered his face with his hand even though Stewart couldn’t see him. “I’m sorry. I left everything behind when I moved here and—”</p><p>
  <em>“Don’t worry about it, man. I’ve got one you can use.”</em>
</p><p>“Really?”</p><p><em>“Yeah, of course!” </em>Stewart laughed, as if this situation was completely normal. Maybe it was for him, but who was Roger to judge? Normal for him used to be meeting up with clients at all hours of the night, dressed up in drag and wishing he was someone else. He only got the opportunity to fulfill that desire once before, and he completely blew it.</p><p>
  <em>“Now get your ass over here before you talk yourself out of it. I’ll see you soon.”</em>
</p><p>Roger’s eyes widened at the café owner’s final remark, followed by the sound of line being disconnected. The blonde slowly drew the phone away from his ear, wondering how the café owner knew what he was thinking.</p><p>Stewart was giving the blonde a second chance. Roger didn’t know why, but he was, and he knew that if he blew this one like he did the last, he probably wouldn’t get another. It was only a matter of time until he fell back into the old swing of things. He was halfway there as it was with Cheryl, and if he didn’t take this opportunity, he knew there would be more Cheryls, Sids, and Timothées.</p><p>So, without wasting any more time, Roger rushed out of his apartment, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the sly question of, “Where do you think <em>you’re</em> going?”</p><p>The blonde looked back over his shoulder to see the landlord standing in his apartment’s doorway—leaning against the threshold with a cigarette pinched between his fingers.</p><p>“I’m going out,” he answered.</p><p>“Oh, are you now?” Tim’s friend peeled himself away from the entryway and sauntered over to Roger, smirking. “What should I tell your boy when he comes back? Because he worries about you, you know...thinks you’re going to leave him again.” The blonde clenched his jaw. “<em>Yeah</em>, he told me all about the little stunt you pulled back in London; said I should keep an eye on you when he’s not around.”</p><p>“I’m just meeting up with a friend,” the blonde defended himself, the shadows of the night masking the blush that rose in his cheeks.</p><p>“A friend, huh?” The landlord took another step closer to him, eyes narrowed.</p><p>Roger swallowed the nervous lump in his throat and muttered a weak, “Yes, a friend,” in response.</p><p>Tim’s friend stared at the blonde for a little longer, bringing the burning white stick up to his lips and taking a long drag. After holding his breath for a bit, he exhaled slowly—the smoke irritating Roger’s eyes. “And when will you be back?” he continued his interrogation, his voice low and his gaze sharp.</p><p>“I don’t know, probably sometime later today,” the blonde mumbled, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second.</p><p>“Hmm,” the landlord hummed, glancing down at his cigarette. He twirled it in his fingers once before returning his attention to Roger, the blonde’s heart racing a mile a minute. “Let’s hope so.” He tucked the white stick in between his lips and retreated to his apartment, slamming the door behind him and releasing the blonde from the invisible chains that tied him down.</p><p>Roger let out a shaky breath and blinked away the tears that surfaced, pushing his way out of the dark apartment complex and heading for the café, more determined than ever to win Stewart over and get out of New York City before it was too late.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian never showed up to Freddie’s that night, taking a slight detour and ending up at the university. The deserted halls illuminated by every third light hanging from the ceiling guided the professor down to the basement—the long, lonely corridor almost foreign to him, for he hadn’t been down there since Roger’s last day. He adjusted his grip on the strap of the bag that hung by his hip, the room down the hall to his right calling for him.</p><p>The professor took in a deep breath and pushed forward, his footsteps echoing off the blank, undecorated walls; accompanied by the jingle of keys. Stopping in front of the makeshift classroom that held so many memories for him, Brian couldn’t suppress the memory that surfaced.</p><p>
  <em>“Look, there’s only one way to know for sure if these feelings you’re having are real.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Kiss me,” Brian immediately suggested, flushing Roger’s cheeks a deep shade of pink.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“That…That wasn’t what I was going to say, but—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Roger, I need to know,” the quickly unraveling professor explained, shaking his head and swiping at the stray tears rolling down his cheeks, “If we don’t do this now, I’ll never know, and I’ll be stuck feeling this way forever. Please, just kiss me.”</em>
</p><p>He swallowed the lump in his throat and inserted the correct key into the lock, turning it and entering the room that had been filled with instruments the university finally provided. After Roger left, the impromptu music program threatened dissolvement. Brian—desperate to hold onto whatever he could of the blonde—fought hard to keep it, saying that one semester wasn’t enough to show the benefits of instituting it. Thanks to his connection with Chrissie, and John’s adamancy that his lessons helped him with his studies, the corrupt headmistress allowed it—making Brian the new music instructor, though he’d still have to teach his astrophysics classes.</p><p>It was a fair trade, but some days were harder than others for Brian, the room reminding him of Roger in both good and bad ways—like when they first kissed.</p><p>
  <em>The two stumbled back into the piano, the blonde landing on the keys and sending an erroneous chord into the air as his legs found their way around the professor’s waist, locking him in place. The cramped room began to feel even smaller as the moment progressed, the pair eager to explore this new and exhilarating feeling that had washed over the both of them. </em>
</p><p>And when he found the blonde after his weekend with Sid.</p><p>
  <em>“Roger?” Brian whispered, reaching into the shadows and flicking on the light switch to illuminate the music instructor’s classroom. The blonde scrambled to his feet, crawling across the floor as if he was a soldier in boot camp and pulling himself up onto the piano bench, grunting in pain as he plopped down on it and casually leaned back against the instrument. “My god, what happened to you?” the professor couldn’t help but ask, slipping into the room and closing the door behind him.</em>
</p><p>Pushing past the recollections, the professor plopped himself down at the desk Roger once sat at and let out a deep breath. He dug into his bag and pulled out a notebook, torn and tattered but bound together at the spine with a wiry spiral. He flipped through the pages until he reached the one splattered with scratched out lines, the only legible words reading: <strong>Song for Roger </strong>and <strong>some day one day</strong>. He’d tried several different lyrics to fill the empty space, but none of them seemed good enough; none of them truly expressed how he felt.</p><p>Brian snatched up one of the stray pens from the desk and sat forward, staring at the paper and hoping he could channel some of his emotions into lyrics. He sat there for hours, repeating the same failed process with nothing coming to mind except repressed memories that only succeeded in intensifying the pain spreading from his heart. When the hurt became too much to bear—his mistakes and regrets consuming him whole—he slammed the pen down and shot up out of the chair, going over to grab a guitar from its stand. However, as soon as his hand made contact with the neck of the instrument—the same instrument that he and his dad had built together, when his father wasn’t ashamed of him—something, or rather, some<em>one</em> out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.</p><p>“So, this is the music program, huh?” his visitor asked, leaning against the threshold with hands balled in their pockets. They peered into the small room and surveyed the small collection of instruments. “Kinda pathetic, don’t you think?”</p><p>“It’s new,” Brian defended his profession, “We’re just getting started.”</p><p>“Is that why they make you come in six hours before your shift starts?”</p><p>The professor heaved a frustrated sigh and crossed his arms. “I could ask you the same question, <em>Gordon</em>.”</p><p>“Call me Sting, please,” the replacement insisted as he ventured into the room and drew his hands out of their hiding places to clasp them behind his back, “All my friends call me that, and besides, Gordon’s too formal, don’t you think?”</p><p>Brian clenched his jaw. “Fine, <em>Sting</em>.” Venom dripped from his voice, the preferred name stirring a new unpleasantness within the curly-haired professor. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”</p><p>“Oh, I was getting myself familiar with Ray’s curriculum,” he answered nonchalantly, taking slow, careful steps as he walked over to Brian’s desk, lowering the glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose to get a better look at the notebook on display. The professor’s face flushed a bright shade of red, too nervous to take action and stop his new colleague from getting a glimpse into his troubling thoughts. Much to his surprise, though, Sting only hummed, his next remark linked to the previous one and not daring to address the name standing out on the messy page. “Would you believe that his only notes for his lessons were written down on a napkin?” He chuckled, turning to face Brian and leaning against the desk as if it was his own. “A <em>used </em>one at that. ‘Makes me wonder what material he even covered during his lectures.”</p><p>Although Brian wanted to comment, divulging the entire faculty’s shared skepticism about what Ray taught his students, the professor refrained from doing so. Instead, he asked, “No, I meant, what are you doing <em>here</em>?”</p><p>“Ahh, the hard-hitting question,” the new blonde replied, smirking, “Can’t we just chat for a bit? Is that too much to ask for?”</p><p>Brian dropped his hands to his sides, resting them on his hips. “Well, I was sort of in the middle of something.”</p><p>“Oh, come on,” Sting scoffed, “You and I both know you weren’t doing anything.”</p><p>It seemed impossible, but Brian’s cheeks grew redder in embarrassment as he murmured with waning confidence, “I was trying to write a song.”</p><p>“I can tell.” He snatched the notebook up and leafed through the pages of scribbles. “No luck, huh?”</p><p>The professor swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. “Please put that down.”</p><p>“You know, I write songs too,” Sting blurted out, blatantly ignoring Brian’s plea, “I’m actually starting a band soon with this bloke from the States. We played together a few times while he was over here, and I think we’ve got some real potential. You should come to one of our shows once we find a guitarist. Maybe you’ll get inspired.”</p><p>Brian stared at Ray’s replacement, not knowing what he was trying to get at. He still hadn’t revealed why he was there; why he had found him in the basement of all places in the large university. In fact, he was avoiding the question more than the professor was avoiding his true feelings.</p><p>“What do you say?” the new blonde asked, slamming the notebook down on the desk and snapping the professor out of the daze he’d fallen into. “Can I count on you taking one night off to live a little? I mean, you can’t write songs if you don’t live, Brian.”</p><p>“I-I would, but...” Brian turned away from the newest addition to Imperial College and snatched his guitar off its stand, “I have a daughter to take care of.”</p><p>Sting laughed as Brian threw the strap over his shoulders and glanced back with furrowed brows. “So? I have a son. Newborn. You don’t see that stopping me.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not you,” the professor muttered, hanging his head and plucking the strings of his guitar, finding his way to the melody he’d been dabbling with ever since the conception of his song for Roger.</p><p>Ray’s replacement heaved a sigh and peeled himself away from the professor’s desk, replying, “No, you aren’t.” He crossed the room, heading for the door. “But maybe if you were, you wouldn’t be here avoiding your wife right now.”</p><p>Brian spun around to face him. “What did you say?”</p><p>“You aren’t fooling anyone, Brian,” Sting answered harshly, turning his head over his shoulder and meeting the professor’s offended gaze. “You don’t need to sneak off to your place of work to write a song. You can do that at home, but we all know that you’re here because there’s something going on between you and your wife. I saw it as soon as you two turned the corner. I saw it when you came back from wherever you disappeared this afternoon. You’re avoiding her, but you can’t avoid her forever. I don’t think that weird janitor would be too keen about you sleeping here every night. ‘Might interfere with his nightly ritual.”</p><p>And with that, Sting slipped away, the fading click of his shoes as they echoed off the walls ringing loudly in the professor’s ears. Brian’s vision began to blur, the new blonde’s visit compounding the conflict raging inside of him. Instinctively, he ripped the guitar off of him and set it back down in its stand, rushing over to his desk and hastily gathering his belongings—shoving the notebook into his bag and throwing it over his shoulder.</p><p>He left the room with a racing heart, not getting as far as he would’ve liked to before another unfortunately familiar voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hey, May, what are you doing here?”</p><p>The professor looked back over his shoulder, seeing the janitor that Sting was referring to in the middle of the hallway, resting his elbow atop a wet mop handle whose head was submerged in a yellow, rolling bucket of soapy water. He heaved a frustrated sigh and called out, “Leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”</p><p>Brian returned his attention forward, heading for the stairs when Paul shouted, “Forget anything in that new classroom of yours I need to know about before going in there?” The hesitation in the professor’s step was all the janitor needed to prove his facetious theory, a smirk appearing on his face as Brian fled the university—hopping in his car and speeding off through the deserted streets of London.</p><p>The screeching of the tires as he whipped into his driveway and the slam of the car door as he got out were loud enough to wake his neighbors, but thankfully not a single complaint was lodged his way, nor was he met with the shrill, instantly recognizable cry of his daughter from the nursery. Even though his heart had calmed down substantially since he left the university, it still weighed heavily in his chest, dragging him up the stairs and into his home where he found Chrissie still awake, standing in the living room—in the dark—with a cigarette in one hand and a martini in the other, her gaze once again locked outside. However, the expression she wore on her face—illuminated by the autumn moonlight—resembled that of someone who had just seen a ghost.</p><p>“Chrissie?” he asked, cautiously entering the room.</p><p>The headmistress slowly turned her head, her wide eyes trailing up to meet his. Her cheeks were streaked with mascara, and the corners of her lips had turned raw from coming in contact with the glass so many times. “When were you going to tell me?” she whispered, the heartache in her voice bringing her husband’s fears to reality—the same way Mary had with hers.</p><p>“W-What do you mean?” he stammered, refusing to take another step closer to her.</p><p>She sniffled, the tears that had subsided resurfacing. “When were you going to tell me that you ran away with him?”</p><p>*****</p><p>Roger approached the café, having successfully evaded the lurkers in the alleys. Had he accepted the smoke from the girl who sat on her porch steps and offered him the blunt in exchange for a quickie, the dark café might not have unsettled him so much. He’d only ever been there when it was already open, with a line of customers crammed inside and the smell of coffee wafting through the air. He’d never been there when it was locked up, lights off, no signs of life whatsoever. It almost didn’t seem right.</p><p>Like Stewart had promised, his door was open—propped open with a brick. Roger took in a deep breath and pushed the door in, entering the narrow stairwell and being greeted with the faint sound of an intense drumbeat, reminding him of the late nights he and Tim used to share when they both were younger, insomnia keeping them up. They probably could have found better pastimes, especially since Tim’s father was almost always in earshot and at risk of going off like a bomb at the slightest disturbance, but those nights meant everything to the boys—their minds becoming one, exploring a passion that could have taken them far had they not given up on it.</p><p>Roger smirked at the pleasant memory—one of few—and ascended the stairs, entering the apartment to reveal the café owner sitting behind his kit. Sweat dripped down his face and from his disheveled hair as his expertly handled sticks navigated the drumheads, landing on the floor tom together as the player noticed his guest.</p><p>“Hey,” the drummer greeted, short of breath. He rose up from the stool he was on and wiped the glistening beads from his forehead with the back of his forearm. “Sorry I didn’t hear you. I was just working on this new piece of mine.”</p><p>“It sounded good,” the blonde assured him, the corner of his lips pricking up into a small grin. “Really good.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Stewart tossed his drumsticks into a nearby armchair—one of the few pieces of furniture in the small studio, along with a matching couch, a small television propped up on an large amp, an unmade bed without a frame, and a rolling clothes rack that had garments thrown on hangers and draped over the rail. The apartment overall exuded a sense of impermanence that aligned with the café owner’s habitual absence. The only things that mattered to him were his instruments; he didn’t care about his bed, or his TV, or his sitting arrangements. If he needed to leave tomorrow morning, he could without having to worry about anything, and chances were he was going to leave everything behind on Sunday when he departed for London, because there was nothing to hold him back; no <em>one </em>to hold him back.</p><p>“Can I get you anything to drink?” Stewart offered, snatching a discarded t-shirt from the back of the couch and using it to wipe his face as he walked over to the kitchen area, snapping Roger out of the envious daze he had fallen into.</p><p>The blonde’s attention followed the hose as he opened the fridge and glanced over his shoulder, meeting his gaze in anticipation of an answer. “Y-Yeah, that would be great,” he stammered.</p><p>“‘Hope you’re okay with beer,” the drummer chuckled, snatching two amber bottles out of the icebox and closing it with his foot as he spun around to face his guest. “It’s the only thing I really have since the last time I went shopping was...” he approached Roger and extended the drink out to him, “...probably before I left for London.”</p><p>Roger twisted the cap off with Stewart, tossing it aside the same way the latter had. “How long ago was that?” he asked, the taller of the two taking a swig that emptied nearly half the bottle.</p><p>“Oh, about a few weeks or so,” the café owner answered, brushing past him and walking over to the couch. He pushed aside the assortment of empty beer bottles and plopped down in the space he had created. He leaned into the cushions and rested his arms on the back of the couch, elaborating, “I go there every now and then to visit a...<em>good friend</em> of mine.” He smirked and swirled the alcohol inside the bottle distractedly. “We’re both really busy people, so it’s hard to find time to get together, but we’ve made it work for a long time now.”</p><p>Roger took a quick sip of his drink and—not understanding what Stewart truly meant but still answering honestly—replied, “I have a good friend out there too.”</p><p>Stewart met his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Oh, do you now?” The blonde nodded his head, eliciting an under-the-breath chuckle from the café owner who finished his beer in one chug and added the bottle to the others beside him. He stood up and clapped his hands together. “Well, how about we get playing? You on guitar and me on drums. Sound good?”</p><p>“Y-Yeah,” Roger stuttered, scanning the room for a place to set down his drink before awkwardly deciding to leave it on the floor. He crossed the room and picked the Fender up from its stand. It was the same Fender that Roger’s client had gifted him back in London, and the same one that he used when he taught at Imperial College for that short yet memorable semester. With his hand wrapped around the neck, a wave of emotions washed over him—freezing him in place.</p><p>“You good?” Stewart wondered aloud, snatching his sticks up from the armchair.</p><p>The blonde glanced back at the café owner, watching as he perched himself atop the stool and got himself comfortable. Then, within the blink of a teary eye, Roger saw himself at the stool—young, ambitious, unknowing of what his future held. He saw big blue eyes that were still bright; still hopeful, untarnished by the harsh realities he would soon come to face. He saw a teenager who still believed in second chances; who wouldn’t let his older self ruin this opportunity because he forgot about who he used to be; who he <em>wanted</em> to be.</p><p>“Roger?” Stewart asked, startling him out of the morose trance he’d slipped into. “Are you ready?”</p><p>“Yeah, let’s play,” the blonde replied with an unintentional terseness that luckily passed right over the drummer’s head, slipping the guitar strap over his shoulders and plugging the instrument into the nearest amp. Stewart smirked and clicked his sticks together, establishing the rhythm that would take the pair into hours of improvisation.</p><p>Despite the rocky start, with Roger’s nerves getting the best of him and Stewart reminding him that it wasn’t an audition—an official one, at least—the two eventually found their groove and wound up playing all night—the sun starting to creep above the skyline etched out by the tall New York City buildings as the last chord that rung out from the amp, accompanied by the din of cymbals as Stewart hit them as fast and as hard as he could with no regard to the slowly rousing street below. With one final clash and one final strum, followed by silence disturbed only by the hum of the amplifier, the two broke out into a fit of drunken laughter—proud of what they’d done.</p><p>“Holy shit, man!” Stewart exclaimed, nearly tripping over his drums and the beer bottles newly scattered across the floor as he stumbled his way over to Roger who wove his fingers into his hair. “That was fucking incredible!”</p><p>“I haven’t played like that in years!” the other blonde chuckled in disbelief, unable to wipe away the wide grin plastered on his face as he dropped his hands back down to his sides.</p><p>“Aren’t you glad I made you come over now...” Stewart teased, clutching onto Roger’s upper arms for support, “...and reminded you what fun was?”</p><p>“So glad,” he agreed, his cheeks reddening as he realized just how close Stewart had made the two of them—the latter staring into the former’s eyes with a look that appeared as though he was working on finding the words to say something else. However, instead of speaking, he dipped down and connected their lips. The sudden and intimate action surprised the blonde, but when Stewart persisted, wordlessly trying to get him to follow his lead by tightening his grip and pressing up against him, Roger surrendered and kissed him back, tasting the alcohol on Stewart’s breath—the same that was on his.</p><p>Before the inebriated and passionate moment could progress, with the two staggering towards the couch, Roger gathered enough wits to separate himself from the café owner and blurt out, “Wait.”</p><p>“Wait what?” the breathless drummer muttered, his chest rising and falling impatiently.</p><p>The blonde swallowed the lump that formed in his throat. “I-I have a...” His voice trailed off, not knowing how much Stewart knew about him but being aware that, sometimes, if people found out about him—about who he liked, about what he did—it could change their whole perspective of him. He thought he’d played it well so far, and he wasn’t about to ruin it, no matter how much alcohol was coursing through his veins. So, he started over, deciding instead to reveal, “I’m with someone.”</p><p>“Yeah? So am I.” Stewart bit his lip and dared to tuck a short piece of Roger’s hair behind his ear, the corners of his lips pricking up deviously. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”</p><p>“No, Stewart, I—” He took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and meeting the drummer’s lustful gaze. Roger heaved a sigh and tilted his head down, admitting, “Look, Stewart, I...I’m probably overstepping when I say this, but I really want to be in your band. I don’t even know if you want me—you know, seeing as this is the only time we’ve played together and I’ve got absolutely nothing to offer but myself—but if you do, I...I don’t want to do it this way. I’ve gotten things this way for far too long and—”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” Stewart laughed, shortening the distance between them once more and playfully punching him on the arm, “Dude, you had the gig the second you called me.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yes!” the taller of the two exclaimed, dropping his hands on Roger’s shoulders and giving him a slight shake, “Look, man. I saw the look in your eyes in that bathroom with Cheryl. It was the look of a man who needed to get away, and I know because I’ve been there.” He dragged his hands over Roger’s shoulders, feeling the blonde’s beating heart underneath his right one, and turned to the side, waltzing over to the mattress on the floor and plopping down on its edge. “People like you and me, Rog, we find ourselves in situations we don’t want to be in. Let me tell you, though, all it takes is a bit of courage and maybe a little help from your friends to set you free.” He slipped his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. “Once you have that, everything changes. I mean, just look at me.” He gestured to himself and smiled. “I’m living the fucking dream, and you can too. Now, maybe it’s not exactly what you’re looking for, but—”</p><p>“No, it’s perfect,” Roger cut him short.</p><p>Stewart scoffed. “But I didn’t even—"</p><p>“It’s perfect,” the blonde repeated himself, rushing over and swooping down to bring Stewart into another kiss. He straddled the shirtless café owner, wrapping his arms around the back of his neck to deepen the kiss that was accepted with an enthusiasm Roger hadn’t experienced in what felt like years.</p><p>Slowly, the two fell back on the mattress together, Stewart flipping them over after a while so that he was on top. The move could have been more graceful, but in that moment, neither of them really seemed to care. The only concern in that room that night—or rather, early morning—was getting the rest of their clothes off as quickly as they could, in addition to Stewart’s mention that, “We just can’t tell Sting about this, okay?”</p><p>“Who’s Sting?” the blonde questioned with furrowed brows, adding his shirt to the haphazardly constructed pile.</p><p>“He’s the guy I met in London,” the café owner answered, diving back in and whispering just before their soft lips reconnected and their hips rolled against one another’s, “He’s the one I’m starting the band with.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Chrissie tried to choke back the sobs that began to rack her body, but the task seemed impossible, especially when Brian dropped his bag to the floor and dragged himself over to the couch, lowering himself down on the edge of the cushion closest to his wife. He rested his elbows on his thighs, clasped his hands out in front of him, and hung his head in shame. “Who told you?” he dared to ask—his voice low.</p><p>“It doesn’t matter who told me,” she spat, bringing the cigarette up to her lips and turning the ignited end a bright orange as she inhaled deeply. Her hand trembled as she brought the white stick back down to her hip, blowing the smoke out unsteadily to the side and muttering, “Did you or did you not run away with him?”</p><p>“No!” the professor cried, Chrissie’s unrelenting and glistening gaze coercing him into changing his answer to a shameful, “Yes,” that he quickly tried to redeem with the desperate reminder of, “But I came back! I came back because of you; because I wanted to do the right thing!”</p><p>The headmistress pressed her quivering lips together, turning back towards the window as her vision blurred. She wiped the murky stream that trickled down her cheek with her hand that still grasped the martini glass and mumbled, “The right thing...how is this the right thing when we’re both so fucking miserable?”</p><p>“I-I’m not miserable,” Brian murmured, his cheeks reddening.</p><p>Chrissie chuckled and took a sip of her martini, tilting her head back to finish the drink before smashing the glass on the floor and spinning to face her mortified husband. “You’re a terrible liar, Brian. You always have been, and you always will be.” She staggered towards him—a drunken lilt to her steps. Towering over him, she wove her fingers into his hair and rolled his head back, looking down at him with a frown and muttering, “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”</p><p>The professor had been struck silent, only able to shake his head in response.</p><p>“Then how long were you going to play this game with me?” she asked through clenched teeth, her grip on his hair tightening and earning a pained gasp from him. “Huh? How long did you think you could pull this off? This...this ‘nice guy’ act of yours. How long did you expect me to believe it?”</p><p>“It isn’t an act, Chrissie!” he shouted in complete disregard of the sleeping infant he believed was just a thin floor above them. He ducked out of her hold and stood up, crossing the room to create distance between him and her. “God, what has that new Sting guy been telling you, and why are you listening to him?”</p><p>“It wasn’t Sting who told me about your...your fling with Roger!” the headmistress yelled back, the words falling from her lips with a bitter distaste that demanded Brian’s attention. She brought her free hand up to her mouth and squeezed out a few more tears, the pain of saying the truth aloud preventing her from revealing who <em>did </em>tell her.</p><p>With her lip tucked under her front teeth—a sad attempt to collect herself—she sat back on the arm of the couch and sniffled, shaking her head and saying with a closed throat, “You told me you weren’t like him, Brian, and you told me wouldn’t hurt me like he did; that you couldn’t. Yet, this entire time, you...you...” The sentence failed to see its end as she tapped the cigarette she had yet to let go of against the side of the couch, bringing the newly shortened but still burning stick back to her lips and inhaling deeply. Her slow, smoky exhale evolved into a disbelieving chuckle, the headmistress admitting, “All I can see when I think of you and him is what I saw with Timothée and him, with you lying on some cheap hotel bed and him bouncing on your—”</p><p>“Stop,” Brian interrupted her, for both their sakes.</p><p>“Why?” Chrissie demanded to know, shooting a bulleted gaze in his direction, “Because it’s true?”</p><p>“Because it doesn’t matter,” he corrected her softly. “What matters is—”</p><p>“That you’re here now, right?” the headmistress guessed, “And that nothing’s going to change that?” She rose from the couch and began to approach him, the professor only able to mirror her steps so far before bumping into the wall behind him and finding himself pinned between that and his wife. She was so close to him that he could smell the alcohol and smoke on her breath. It was nauseating. “Bullshit, Brian. Bull-fucking-shit.” She jabbed her finger into his chest with each word. “You lied to me. You lied right to my face.”</p><p>He swallowed hard, the air around him growing thin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.</p><p>Chrissie laughed, her reaction bordering on delirium. “You really think your stupid sorry’s going to fix this?” Brian heaved a sigh and dropped his head back on the wall, his shameful gaze moving to the ceiling. “Brian, look at me!” she shouted, smacking him on the chest. “This is serious!”</p><p>“No, it’s late,” he murmured, tilting his head forward and gazing into his wife’s glistening eyes, “It’s been a long day, so why don’t we just go to bed and...and work this out in the morning?”</p><p>The headmistress bit her lip—his offer tempting. She wanted more than anything for this day to be over; for this <em>nightmare </em>to be over, but she knew that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t change things. She knew that when she woke up, she’d still be living with the fact that her new husband—the one she risked everything for—betrayed her the same way her first husband had, the <em>exact </em>same way her first husband had. The only difference was that she hadn’t caught him in the act this time around; she’d heard about it from someone else, and the only reason she didn’t question it was because that someone else was acquainted with both the homewrecking prostitute <em>and </em>the unfaithful professor.</p><p>“Please, Chrissie,” Brian pleaded, bringing his hands up to her arms and giving her a slight, hopefully convincing squeeze, “Let’s go to bed.”</p><p>She stared at him for a little longer before shaking her head. “No.”</p><p>“No?” he repeated, his hands falling to his sides, “What do you mean ‘no’?”</p><p>“I mean, I’m not going to bed with you,” Chrissie muttered, taking one final drag from her cigarette and pivoting on her heel, slowly waltzing over to the window and announcing, “I think I’m actually going to stay with my mum for a while.” She smashed what was left of the white stick into the dish perched atop the windowsill and leaned against it, meeting Brian’s shattered gaze and crossing her arms as she tacked on, “And I’m taking Liz with me.”</p><p>The professor’s eyes doubled in size. <em>“What?”</em></p><p>“You heard me,” the headmistress assured him, a newly acquired lowness to her voice, “I’ve got my bag packed, ready to go. Liz is already there. I dropped her off after I left my friend’s, who apparently is your friend too because they know you <em>very</em> well—more than I even know you.”</p><p>His eyebrows knit together in suspicion. “Who?”</p><p>Chrissie scoffed. “It doesn’t matter who, Brian. I just wanted to see you before I left; know for sure that I was making the right decision.”</p><p>“You can’t do this to me, Chrissie!” Brian darted across the room, grabbing Chrissie by the arms for the second time that night and shoving her back into the window. “It’s not fair!”</p><p>“What’s not fair, <em>Brian</em>, is that you left me for him...” she pushed her husband away from her and straightened her posture, “...<em>after </em>I told you I was pregnant. I told you I was going to have your child, and what did you do?” She threw her hand to the side, her finger pointing at the door. “You fucking ran away with the town’s sleaziest transvestite!” The professor’s cheeks burned a bright red. “You ran away with him, and you left me all alone that night, thinking that I had no one I could turn to because...because for all I knew, I didn’t.” Chrissie dropped her hand to her side and explained, “Timothée found out about us, Brian, and about the baby, and I was lucky he let me go home with him that night.”</p><p>
  <em>“...you think you’re a winner, Chrissie; that you’ve played your cards right and finally got what you’ve always wanted, but in reality, you’re just as much of a loser as the two of them. And you want to know why?” The headmistress bit her lip, Roger shortening the distance between the two of them and whispering darkly, “Because their lives aren’t the only ones you’ve fucked over by getting knocked up. Yours is too.”</em>
</p><p><em>With those final three words, the blonde turned on his heel and marched down the hallway, Chrissie’s hands clenching into fists by her sides as her mind spun rapidly. This wasn’t what she wanted or planned to happen, and she didn’t know what to do next. All she knew was that the blonde had ruined everything—</em>everything—<em>and so, despite the chaos bubbling up and churning inside of her, she managed to collect her fleeting thoughts enough to cry out, “You’re fired, Roger! You’re fucking done here, you hear me? I don’t ever want to see your face around here again!”</em></p><p>
  <em>Her rash, resentful decision was met with what appeared to be indifference, with Roger angrily throwing open the set of doors and breaking outside. The headmistress stood in the middle of the hallway for a bit, tears spilling from her eyes uncontrollably and lips quivering with despair. She swiped pathetically at her wet cheeks and forced herself down the hallway, falling into the pair of doors that Roger pushed through and pressing her hands against the cold windows. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Meanwhile, escaping down the hall in the opposite direction was Ray—a devious smirk slathered across his face as he stumbled his way back into the gymnasium after sneaking off with another teacher who’d slipped away long before Ray did. Despite a few wrong turns and dead ends, he found Timothée and Tim sitting on the bleachers together, a small collection of shot glasses on each of their sides—some empty, some waiting to be chosen next—and one in each of their hands. The unlikely pair, both abandoned by their respective partners, clinked their glasses together and brought them up to their lips, tipping their heads back and downing the shots in one fell swoop. The smiles crawled onto their faces quickly subsided as Ray approached them, the headmistress’s husband instantly recognizing him from past faculty Christmas parties.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hi, Ray,” Timothée greeted dully, trying to sober himself as much as he could for the conversation; knowing that the conniving teacher liked to mess with the party guests and use their drunken slip-ups as blackmail whenever he needed a favor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Timothée,” he replied with a growing smirk, his eyes flickering over to the other man, “Tim.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What do you want, Ray?” the headmistress’s husband muttered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, I just wanted to ask you how you’re holding up,” the women’s studies professor answered, squeezing his way in between the two men and making himself comfortable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Timothée’s eyebrows furrowed together. “Why?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Didn’t you hear? Your wife got knocked up by that tall astrophysics professor.” He held out his hand and Tim instinctively offered him one of his shot glasses. The teacher happily accepted it and took a quick sip, smacking his lips together in disappointment of the lack of kick the beverage possessed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The headmistress’s husband chuckled awkwardly, thinking this was just another one of the troublemaker’s antics. “Funny, Ray.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em> “No, I’m serious. I heard her tell that music instructor that apparently you two haven’t had sex in months, and that she only told you she wanted a divorce to cover up the fact that the baby was his.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Damn,” Tim interjected, ignoring the narrowed side-glance from his original drinking buddy and picking up another shot glass—this one for himself. “You see, that’s why I don’t fuck with girls. They’re too problematic. Marriage. Kids. You don’t have to deal with that shit when you’re with a guy.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Who are you to say something about marriage and kids when you and your boyfriend are more business partners than actual partners?” Timothée sneered.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The brunette sat forward, throwing an accusatory finger in his direction and replying tersely, “You don’t know anything about us.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I know that he took the stupid job my wife offered him to get away from you!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Hey now,” Ray cut in, dropping a hand on each of their shoulders, “No need to get catty, boys. We’re all on the same side, here, remember?” The two men rolled their eyes and turned their heads in opposite directions. “Why don’t I get us some more drinks, yeah?” the women’s studies professor suggested, wasting no time in jumping down from the bleachers and heading for the open bar that was still going strong.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>An awkward silence fell over the pair as Ray disappeared, replaced by Chrissie shortly after—the headmistress taking the brunt of Timothée’s rightfully directed anger when she begged to leave. His unwillingness to submit to her pleas forced her to stay; to think about what she was going to do and how she was going to get out of this.</em>
</p><p>She sniffled and blinked away the tears blurring her vision. “But he wasn’t the one I wanted to go home with, Brian.” She poked the professor in the chest, this time less harshly. “You were.”</p><p>“Chrissie, I’m sorry,” he tried to apologize, wanting to appeal to her in a desperate attempt to change her mind, but his efforts proved futile when she shook her head in disagreement.</p><p>“No, you’re not. You ran off with Roger because you didn’t care about me, or our child, and you still don’t. You only ever cared about him, Brian, and I’m an idiot for thinking that that would’ve changed when he left for...for...”</p><p>“America,” Brian mumbled, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his head down in defeat.</p><p>“America,” the headmistress repeated softly, heaving a shaky sigh and finishing her thought with the shrug of her shoulders, “You left me, Brian, and you never really came back that night. So, I don’t know what else to do. I just can’t keep playing pretend with you. It’s exhausting.”</p><p>The professor pressed his lips together, finding it hard to argue with her. “So this is it, then?” he croaked, “You’re just going to leave, and I’m never going to see my daughter again?”</p><p>“Not until you get your priorities straight,” Chrissie muttered, slipping away from him and out into the foyer where her bag had been sitting the entire time. She threw on her coat and gathered her belongings, taking one last look at Brian—the pained expression on her face disguised by the shadows as she yanked open the front door and pulled herself through.</p><p>It was only when the door slam shut behind her that Brian broke down—the weight of the situation crushing him; bringing him to the ground, hunched over with trembling hands masking the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.</p><p>
  <em>I just wanted to do the right thing.</em>
</p><p>*****</p><p>“Isn’t it beautiful?” Stewart asked Roger while lighting the blonde’s cigarette, the two of them sitting on the studio’s fire escape—the sweat beaded on their moist skin glistening in the brisk sunlight that now hung slightly higher above the waking city. Their blonde hair was similarly disheveled, and the only articles of clothing keeping them warm were the boxers and trousers they had to think twice about adorning themselves with, battling the laziness that tempted them to venture outside just as they were after their drunken romp in the sheets. However, sensibility overcame desire, leading them to where they found themselves—watching the sunrise and sharing a smoke.</p><p>Roger breathed in the calming nicotine and sunk back into the iron fence surrounding the small terrace, turning his head to look at the city and answering, “Yeah. I-I’ve never actually seen it before.”</p><p>“Why is that?” the café owner wondered, bringing the small flame to the white stick protruding from the corner of his own lips.</p><p>The shorter of the two blondes plucked the cigarette from his lips and dropped it into his lap, letting out the last of the smoke he’d been holding in. “Well, I work almost every day, morning and night, and I’m usually so tired by the time I get home that I sleep right through it.”</p><p>“What about when you were teaching music?” Stewart inquired, exhaling slowly and looking out into the glow of the sun.</p><p>Roger chuckled. “No, not really. Besides, that was just a one-time thing. I mean, I didn’t even really get the chance to get into it.”</p><p>“Well, hopefully that’s not the case with us,” the café owner retorted, earning a wide-eyed glance from the man sitting across from him. When he realized the concern that had been directed his way, he sat up a little straighter and elaborated after clearing his throat, “The band, I mean. You and I, though...” he smirked and flicked the burned-up end of his cigarette over the ledge, “...that was just for fun, but it’s up to you whether it’s a one-time thing or a more-time thing. I’m just here to have a good time.”</p><p>The calm way Stewart spoke about what had happened that night and early morning oddly put Roger at ease, encouraging him to say, “Me too,” and actually mean it. The blonde couldn’t remember the last time he felt this good about something. Even with Brian, he never felt this good.</p><p><em>Maybe this time will be different, </em>he thought to himself, bringing the white stick back up to his lips and breathing in. <em>Stewart doesn’t plan on coming back, and maybe I should too. It’s not too often that people are given a second chance to their second chance.</em></p><p>A comfortable silence fell over the pair after the exchange, disrupted only by the dramatic gasp that slipped past Stewart’s lips as he remembered, “Shit, I gotta call Sting.” He smashed his cigarette into the metal grating beneath them and flashed a quick smile at his new bandmate, explaining, “I gotta let him know I found us a guitarist.”</p><p>Roger couldn’t help the blush that rose in his cheeks as Stewart slipped through the opened window. The blonde sat forward, peering inside and watching as the café owner dug the phone out from the mound of clothes that had piled on top of it and plopped down on the couch, dialing the long-distance number and sitting back. With the phone held up to his ear, the café owner’s attention wandered back to his house guest who instinctively ducked behind the wall outside and bit his lip, his heart pounding against his chest.</p><p>Thankfully, Stewart was chained down by the phone, unable to return to the fire escape and use the last of his buzz to engage Roger in what he knew would be one last, beautifully disastrous fling. Tim had become a distant memory to the blonde, and so had his responsibilities downstairs. It was only when he heard someone shouting his name that he was ripped out of the bliss he lost himself in, standing up and looking over the fire escape’s edge to see Cheryl standing outside the café—her head tipped back with one hand on her hip and the other pressed against her forehead, blocking the reflected sunlight from her narrowed eyes.</p><p>“Roger, what the hell are you doing up there?” she called out, her tone surprisingly lacking the animosity he’d expected coming from her.</p><p>The blonde parted his lips to respond when his attention was stolen by Stewart’s voice from inside the apartment. “Hey buddy, it’s me. I’ve got some good news, so give me a call back as soon as you get this.” He set the phone back down on the receiver and noticed Roger’s gaze on him, explaining with a sigh, “Went to voicemail.”</p><p>“Hey, blondie, I was talking to you!” Cheryl shouted, stomping her foot as though it would help her cause.</p><p>Stewart laughed, making his way to rejoin the blonde barista on the fire escape. “Oh my god, is that Cheryl?” He stood beside Roger and leaned over the railing, grinning widely when he saw the manager staring back at him with an expression that morphed from curiosity to annoyance. “I thought that was you I heard, Cheryl!”</p><p>“Hi, Stewart,” she grumbled, her clearly unamused voice still carrying up to the second-floor terrace.</p><p>“See, this is why I like her,” the café owner muttered loud enough for Cheryl to hear, nudging Roger in the arm, “I can always count on her to be here on time to open up.”</p><p>“Speaking of being on time,” Cheryl interjected, earning both men’s attention and crossing her arms over her chest, “I better see you down here at 7:30, Roger. Not a minute later, you hear me? You have no excuse today.”</p><p>Stewart dropped his hand on the blonde’s shoulder—his repressed memories still causing him to flinch every time someone grabbed him by the shoulders—and replied, “Actually, Cheryl, I’m giving him the day off.”</p><p>She scoffed. “What? No, you can’t do that!” she cried, “He’s my best barista, Stewart! The customers love him!”</p><p>“Not for long,” he announced, looking at Roger with a growing smile and giving him a slight shake. “He’s coming with me on Sunday.”</p><p>Cheryl’s hands fell to her hips as she clicked her tongue in disbelief. “You’re joking.”</p><p>“Nope!” Stewart exclaimed, lifting both the physical and metaphorical weight off Roger’s shoulders as he clung to the rusted railing once more and leaned over. “He’s all mine, Cheryl. Looks like you’ll have to find someone new to fuck on the clock!”</p><p>“Fucking unbelievable,” the manager muttered under her breath, pushing forward and disappearing into the café—the sound of her undoing the locks drowned out by Stewart’s laughter. He glanced over at Roger, hoping to get him to join in, but the blonde appeared distracted; consumed by his thoughts once again.</p><p>Roger struggled to believe that this all wasn’t some fever dream he was having, induced by the intoxicating haze that filled Geoff’s room at the bar. For all the blonde knew, he could have been passed out on the floor, slumped against the wall while Geoff babysat him and his boyfriend as whatever drugs he introduced them to ran through their systems. It would certainly explain the unusual bliss Roger found himself swimming in and the shockingly nonexplosive reaction Cheryl had to seeing him with Stewart. Yet, the more the café owner mentioned their plans, the harder it became to deny their realness.</p><p>
  <em>This is actually happening—my second chance to my second chance.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After slipping back into yesterday’s clothes, Roger reluctantly parted ways with Stewart. It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to stay; in fact, he felt as though he overstayed his welcome because, usually, he was out of his clients’ houses long before dawn, knowing that if he stayed any longer, trouble would ensue. What the blonde didn’t seem to realize, though, was that Stewart wasn’t a client. There was no appointment scheduled; there was no payment to be shamefully accepted. This was just two men getting together, late at night, to play some music and get to know one another.</p><p>Nevertheless, it came time for Roger to go back home. In his drunken state of mind, the blonde had all but forgotten about his boyfriend aside from his attempt to ward off Stewart’s advance. It was only when the effects of the alcohol had fully worn off that he remembered that he left Tim in Geoff’s care, and he had no way of knowing if the bartender followed through with his safe return home other than by checking himself.</p><p>“Thanks again for inviting me over,” Roger said as he trailed behind Stewart down the apartment’s narrow stairwell, headed for the street below. A dissatisfied expression appeared on the blonde’s face, thinking about what he had said for a moment and realizing that it was just the invite he was grateful for. He was grateful for the night they shared, for the day off he’d been given, and most of all, for the <em>second </em>second chance he’d been offered. So, reaching the last step, he summed up his immense gratitude by simply tacking on to his previous statement, “For everything, really.”</p><p>“Well thank <em>you</em> for making my decision easy,” the taller of the two blondes retorted, throwing the door open and stepping outside. He spun around on the mildly congested sidewalk, turning to face Roger, and smirked. “Not everyone is talented like you, and I’m not just talking about the drums.”</p><p>Roger couldn’t count how many times he’d blushed that morning, but Stewart’s multifaceted compliment added another one to the list. “I’ll see you around, then?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.</p><p>He winked. “You know where to find me.”</p><p>With that, the café owner entered his shop—the bell above the door ringing and earning him a harsh scolding from Cheryl who thought he was a customer trying to sneak in early—and flipped the <strong>CLOSED </strong>sign hanging on the door to <strong>OPEN</strong>, smiling at the blonde before disappearing into the shadows of the café.</p><p>Roger heaved a sigh and shoved his hands into his pockets, joining the crowd of metropolitans and finding his way back home. His arrival was greeted by a quiet “humph” from the landlord as he passed by, pleased that Roger had kept his word. The blonde rolled his eyes at this, reminding himself that, after Sunday, he would no longer have to tolerate Tim’s friend’s unsettling remarks and habits. He would no longer have to live in constant fear, not only of the ever-increasing dangerous city, but of Tim, because he wasn’t going to let him come with him this time. This time, it was just going to be him.</p><p>He wrapped his hand around the cold doorknob and twisted it, pushing in the door to reveal Tim sitting at the table—back hunched and fingers woven into his disheveled hair. An eerie silence consumed the apartment, disturbed only by the soft scratch of the record as it spun freely on the turntable in their room—the needle weaving toward and away from the spindle—and Roger’s steps as he dared to approach his boyfriend seemingly frozen in time.</p><p>“Tim?” he asked worriedly.</p><p>“Shh,” the brunette hushed him without moving, so much so that he could almost pass for a statue. “I have a massive headache, and I don’t need you screaming at me right now.”</p><p>“I wasn’t scream—”</p><p>“What did I just say?” Tim snapped, pounding his hands—now balled up into fists—down on the table and turning his head to shoot daggers at Roger.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” the blonde whispered, walking forward and taking the seat across from the brunette. With each step Roger took, Tim flinched—the sound of the floorboards creaking beneath the blonde’s feet and the scraping of the chair as he pulled it out to sit down sending sharp pains through the brunette’s head. Tim groaned and buried himself in his arms, the sight tugging the corner of Roger’s lips down. “How are you feeling?” he questioned, keeping his voice low.</p><p>“How do you think I’m fucking feeling?” the brunette answered harshly, his response muffled by the cluttered tabletop. He forced himself to lift his head and look his boyfriend dead in the eyes, sharing, “I don’t remember anything that happened last night. The last hazy memory I have is being dragged away by that stupid friend of yours.”</p><p>“He has a name, Tim,” Roger murmured.</p><p>“I don’t care what his name is, Rog! He gave me something last night that could’ve killed me. I’m lucky to have woken up in my own bed!”</p><p>The blonde heaved a sigh, knowing that if he picked this battle to fight; if he told him that he was being a bit overdramatic—for Roger knew that Tim’s experienced way worse nights than the last one—he’d instantly lose. There was no changing the latter’s perspective, especially when he was like this. So, with the ear-piercing screech of the chair’s feet as the blonde stood up, he replied, “And I’m glad you did.” Roger forced a small, reassuring grin on his face before escaping to the bathroom, where he ripped open the mirrored medicine cabinet and began rifling through the disorganized shelves in search of some painkillers. After all, Tim wasn’t going to cure his ailments on his own.</p><p>“I already looked there,” the brunette groaned from the table, tilting his head back in hopes it would help his voice project better. With how small the New York City apartment was, though, the two men could hear each other just fine no matter where they were—even out on the balcony, that is, when they weren’t on the phone.</p><p>“Well clearly you didn’t look long enough,” the blonde retorted, snatching the orange bottle from the middle shelf of the cabinet and slamming it shut. He popped open the cap with one hand and shook two pills out into the palm of the other, walking out of the small room and over to the table where Tim reluctantly accepted the remedy—bending the fingers of his other hand like a child for the nearby bottle of beer to wash the pills down with. Roger couldn’t help but roll his eyes before submitting to the request, watching his boyfriend take the drugs and ask for more.</p><p>Roger heaved a sigh and poured more pills out into his hand, taking the time to reveal, “So I have some good news.”</p><p>“Is it that you’re going to stop talking to me and leave me be?” Tim guessed sarcastically, the wide grin that crawled onto his face masking the bit of truth behind his response.</p><p>“Sort of,” the blonde answered, biting his lip and handing over the second dose of painkillers. “I-I’m leaving for London on Sunday.”</p><p>Tim’s eyebrows knit together. “What for?” he muttered, popping the next set of pills and downing them with another swig of room-temperature, almost stale beer.</p><p>A red hue surfaced in Roger’s cheeks—his boyfriend’s reaction not at all what he expected it to be. The entire subway ride home, Roger played out the scenario in his head, but not in one iteration did he expect to get past that point in the conversation where he revealed that he was going back home, their <em>real </em>home. He just imagined the different ways Tim would lash out at him. However, now that he hadn’t, Roger didn’t know what to anticipate.</p><p>“Well?” Tim urged, snapping the blonde out of the daze he had unknowingly fallen into. “Did something happen?”</p><p>“Yes,” he murmured, looking into his boyfriend’s suspicious eyes and sharing, “I got a gig.”</p><p>“You got a gig?”</p><p>Roger nodded his head excitedly.</p><p>“With who? Doing what?”</p><p>The blonde slipped back into the seat across from the brunette and placed his hands on the table, leaning forward and whispering excitedly, “I’m going to be in a band.”</p><p>Tim chuckled and folded his arms across his chest, a disbelieving smirk appearing on his face. “You’re going to be in a band.” Roger hummed in agreement. “Since when were you looking for a band to join?”</p><p>“I wasn’t! I-I was just doing my job at the café, and the owner—”</p><p>“The one you said was giving you a promotion? <em>That </em>was his promotion?”</p><p><em>Here it comes</em>, Roger thought to himself, his relief premature. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and explained, “You know, we’re really good, Tim, and I know that if I pass up this opportunity, I won’t get another.”</p><p>The brunette scoffed. “And what makes you think that this opportunity won’t end up like your last one?” The red in Roger’s cheeks intensified. “You said the same thing about the last ‘gig’ you got, Rog, and what happened then?” Tim shot up from the chair and nearly lost his balance as the world around him began to tip to the side. He clutched the table for support, trying his best to focus on his boyfriend who stared back at him with glistening eyes, and growled, “You fell in love with someone, got your heart broken, and forced us to move halfway across the world—away from all our friends and family—just so you wouldn’t have to see his face every day and be reminded of the mistake <em>you</em> made. Are you going to fall in love with this guy too? Believe that he can solve all your problems; take you away from me once and for all?”</p><p>Roger’s silence provided the answer that his voice didn’t.</p><p>Tim staggered around the table—pushing through the pain and keeping a hand on it so he wouldn’t fall—and towered over the blonde to say, “You know what, Roger? Go ahead. Leave. I’m not going to try and stop you.” The blonde’s eyes doubled in size. “You wanna know why?”</p><p>“B-Because you realized this relationship isn’t working anymore?” he stammered.</p><p>“Oh, honey, no. Not at all,” he patronizingly disagreed, cupping the blonde’s cheek and rubbing his thumb across the warm, smooth surface, “It’s because I know that you’re going to come back to me. You always do, and you always will. And you know what? Because I love you, and you love me, I’ll be right here waiting for you, ready to take you back and pick up the pieces of your shattered, stupidly hopeful heart.” With that final, chilling sentiment, Tim leaned in and planted a gentle kiss on Roger’s lips, the manipulative grin he’d adorned slowly fading as he pulled back and slunk into their bedroom, slamming the door behind him.</p><p>The loud sound startled Roger, causing him to flinch just like it had his boyfriend—the effects of last night not yet conquered by the painkillers he’d taken—and leaving him to sit alone with Tim’s words weighing down on him. Whatever confidence he gained this morning with Stewart by his side was now but a distant memory, obliterated in a matter of minutes by the brunette. Roger’s tearful eyes flickered over to the phone, the slip with Stewart’s telephone number still beside it. He felt a pull towards the device, to pick it up, call the café owner, and tell him that he’d need to find a new guitarist. However, he didn’t get the chance to truly consider the option before the phone began to ring on its own.</p><p>Roger raised a suspicious eyebrow before standing up and taking one careful step after the other towards the couch, where he sat down and cautiously answered the call. He brought the phone up to his ear and asked, “H-Hello?”</p><p>
  <em>“Roger?” </em>
</p><p>He straightened his posture. “Freddie?”</p><p>
  <em>“Roger! Thank goodness it’s you. I really didn’t want to have to get to you through Tim. He always gives me such a hard time when I call. You know how he is.”</em>
</p><p>“I do,” the blonde admitted, scratching the back of his head and shamefully glancing over at the closed bedroom door. He frowned and dropped the hand behind his head down to his lap. “Anyways, uh, what’s going on? Everything okay?”</p><p><em>“Oh, yes, I’m fine, but you will </em>not<em> believe who came to my house last night.”</em></p><p>“Who?”</p><p>Freddie chuckled. <em>“Guess, Roger. You never want to guess.”</em></p><p>The blonde rolled his eyes, the corner of his lips perking up at his friend’s accusation. “I don’t know, Fred. Paul, maybe?”</p><p><em>“No, god, I wish. Even </em>he<em> wouldn’t have made the night as awkward as it was. But you’re close!” </em>Despite not being able to see his friend, Roger could see Freddie twirling the phone cord around his finger and biting his lip in anticipation of his friend’s conjecture. <em>“Guess again.”</em></p><p>Roger swallowed the lump in his throat, knowing there was only really one other person who would be as close a guess as Paul. “What was he doing at your house, Freddie?” he muttered sullenly, curling in on himself and feeling as though this morning was getting progressively worse.</p><p><em>“He wasn’t!” </em>the dark-haired man exclaimed, relieving some of the pressure from the blonde’s mind, <em>“I mean, I </em>wanted<em> him to be. I invited him over for drinks and he totally blew me off; left me alone with Mary and her friend. Fucking arsehole.”</em></p><p>“Fred...”</p><p>He sighed. <em>“I just don’t like getting stood up, Roger. You of all people should know that.”</em></p><p>The blonde laughed and sat back into the couch. “Yes, Freddie, I remember very fondly the time I couldn’t make it to the club and you threw a brick through my window, yelling at me to never leave you alone at a club again.”</p><p>
  <em>“I think I threw a ‘fucking’ in there, but you got the point.”</em>
</p><p>Roger shook his head, smiling. He missed Freddie, and although there were several people in New York City like him, they weren’t the same. Freddie was one of a kind, and Roger couldn’t wait to see him again when he was back in London. He was tempted to bring it up, knowing that the news about the gig would be better received by his friend than it had his boyfriend, but he knew if he did, the two would never circle back around to the first story. “So, who was it if it wasn’t Brian?” he asked, guiding Freddie’s train of thought back on track.</p><p>The dark-haired man clicked his tongue. <em>“Right, right. We were talking about who came over last night.” </em>A faint shuffling sounded on the other end of the line, Freddie getting himself more comfortable to spill that,<em> “It was Mary’s friend; you won’t believe who it was.”</em></p><p>“Who?”</p><p>Static fizzled through the speaker, bringing Roger to the edge of his seat. It was as though Freddie was making sure that no one was around to hear him whisper, <em>“Chrissie, Roger, it was Chrissie, and Mary told her everything—</em>everything<em>.”</em></p><p>*****</p><p>More than half the day had already passed by the time the professor willed himself out of bed, put forth his best effort into looking somewhat presentable, and dragged himself to the university. Brian was a sight for sore eyes as he trudged down the hallways, the lack of sleep noticeable in his face and his dismissal of his reputation apparent in the bottle he held carelessly in his hand, poorly disguised by a brown paper bag. Normally, this kind of attention would’ve worried him like no other, but today those concerns were completely absent—the professor’s mind preoccupied with memories of the night before.</p><p>He pushed his way into the teachers’ lounge where there sat only one other professor; the only professor he <em>didn’t </em>want to see—Sting. He couldn’t hold back the disheartened groan that slipped past his lips, attracting the other teacher’s attention as he turned around to leave.</p><p>“Well, look who decided to show up,” his colleague greeted derisively, tearing off his glasses and setting them down on the collection of papers he had fanned out in front of him. “Everyone was asking about you, you know. They thought you might have ended up like that other one.”</p><p>Brian heaved a sigh—partially wishing that he <em>had </em>ended up like Ray—and slowly spun back around, muttering, “Nope. Just slept through my alarm.”</p><p>“Figures,” the new professor retorted, twirling the red pen he was using between his fingers, “You did have a pretty late night, after all.”</p><p>It wasn’t so much what Sting said, but how he said it that struck the wrong chord in Brian, causing him to tighten his fists and clench his jaw. Although he didn’t know exactly how much Ray’s replacement knew about what happened that night, he found it hard to believe that Chrissie hadn’t told him about their fight; about her leaving and taking their daughter with her. It’s just the thing for the headmistress to do, and Brian knew because he used to be the one that she would confide in. Little did he know that she was lying to him the whole time.</p><p>“Well, are you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to get yourself a cup and join me?” Sting asked, snapping Brian out of the daze he fell into.</p><p>“I actually already have my own drink,” he answered without thinking, raising the bagged bottle he held in his hand and tilting it side to side—its contents sloshing around inside the container.</p><p>The new blonde smirked. “It’s that kind of day, huh?” The professor heaved a sigh and slowly waltzed over to the table Sting had taken over, begrudgingly occupying the seat across from him and leaning back. “You know what worries me, Brian?” He sat forward and clasped his hands together atop the papers.</p><p>The curly-haired professor pressed his lips together, attempting to prepare himself for the second round of judgement and unasked-for relationship advice Sting was about to bestow him with. However, his anticipation proved unnecessary when Ray’s replacement said, “These girls don’t know anything about being women.” He snatched out an assignment from the pile and slid it across the round table, explaining, “There was a note on this exam saying the girl refused to take it because, and I quote, ‘I’m pretty and going to be a model one day, so I don’t need to know any of this’.” Despite the dark cloud that hung above Brian, he decided to entertain the formality, smirking when he saw whose name was scribbled at the top of the page—Debbie Leng. “Right?” Sting laughed. “I’m going to have to start from square one if any of these girls are going to pass this semester.”</p><p>Brian nodded his head in agreement, an awkward silence falling over the pair as the new blonde snatched his glasses and slipped them back on his face, returning the disappointing assignment to the pile of others. The professor shifted uncomfortably in his seat and blurted out, “Hey, can I ask you something?” The blonde replacement met the professor’s wide-eyed gaze and casually shrugged his shoulders, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms over his chest—giving the professor the floor. Brian cleared his throat and sat forward, asking timidly, “Did...Did you see Chrissie today?”</p><p>Sting pursed his lips, as if he had to really think about it. “No. Come to think of it, I haven’t. Why? Have you?”</p><p>All the color drained from Brian’s face, the reason he hadn’t gotten any sleep and was up all night drinking hitting him hard. He could only shake his head no at first, gripping the bottle he’d moved to his lap with both hands then reluctantly revealing, “No. She, uh, she walked out on me last night.” His glistening eyes flickered up to meet Sting’s—the corners of the replacement’s mouth pricking upward into an amused grin.</p><p>“So now <em>she’s</em> the one avoiding <em>you</em>,” he observed as if he was the only one to see it.</p><p>The professor clenched his jaw, refraining from leaping over the table and bringing Sting to the ground, where he’d straddle the arrogant blonde and throw fist after fist at his face until blood spilled from his nose and trickled defeatedly down his cheeks and chin. However, he knew that acting out like that wouldn’t accomplish anything. It wouldn’t make him feel better, and it wouldn’t bring Chrissie and his daughter back. So, instead, he heaved a sigh and murmured, “Yeah.”</p><p>“Are you surprised?” Sting inquired, earning a raised eyebrow from the man across from him. “I mean, come on. You had to see this coming. You can’t keep something like that from your wife and expect her not to find out.”</p><p>Brian’s posture straightened. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“I told you, Brian, you aren’t fooling anyone,” the replacement replied, standing up from his chair and placing his hands on the table, leaning forward and saying, “I know exactly who you are, and exactly what you’ve done, and I don’t need to tell you what those are because you already know, and I’m pretty sure if I did, you’d need another bottle.” He nodded towards the brown paper bag still in Brian’s lap. “So, for your pathetic sake, I won’t. But just know that packing it in isn’t going to change anything. Only you can do that.”</p><p>Sting gathered the papers and circled the table to leave, stopping just past the professor and suggesting slyly—his lips curled into a smirk, “Try snapping out of it, first.”</p><p>Brian glanced back over his shoulder at his colleague, his brows furrowed together in confusion. “What?”</p><p>The blonde menacingly turned around, an evil glow in his eyes. “I said—”</p><p>“Hey!” The professor flinched, a red pen tapping him on the cheek and falling ungracefully to the floor. He watched in awe as the writing-utensil-turned-innocent-weapon settled on the linoleum, his attention then shifting to the man sitting at the table he was no longer sitting at. Instead, he stood in the center of the teacher’s lounge, looking at Sting—whose eyebrow was arched in suspicion—and noticing that the papers he had picked up were back on the table, spread out, as if their conversation had yet to take place. “What the hell?” Brian muttered, bending down to snatch the fallen projectile up from the ground.</p><p>“What the hell yourself!” the replacement replied, catching the pen that was tossed back at him out of annoyance, “You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes in complete silence.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Yes, you freak,” Sting mumbled, adjusting his glasses and returning to the exams that Ray had left behind for him to grade.</p><p>Brian swallowed the lump in his throat, wondering what was going on. Had he really just imagined an entire conversation with Sting about Chrissie? Was there any truth to what was said? How much <em>did </em>Sting know about their relationship? Who told him? <em>Who was he?</em></p><p>“I-I think I need to get some fresh air,” the professor stuttered, staggering forward and leaving his bottle of booze with Ray’s replacement before darting out of the lounge, pushing his way through the empty halls until he was back outside—the cold autumn air wrapping around him like a comforting blanket, allowing the tears that were building in his eyes to stream freely down his cheeks.</p><p>He turned his head and looked at the empty bench beside him, the same one he saw Roger sitting on after the first day they met, smoking a cigarette and pretending to play the drums while he waited for his ride that hadn’t shown up. <em>“You owe me a drag.” </em></p><p>A reminiscent sigh slipped past the professor’s quivering lips, wishing he could go back to that day and live it all over again. Things weren’t as complicated back then. He and Roger were still strangers, unaware of each other’s secrets. They hadn’t made any mistakes; they had no regrets. They were just two men, unprepared for what was to come; unaware of the mess they would make in getting to know one another. Now, all they were was forgotten memories, sparked by little things like benches and one-night stands and separated by the distance Roger had purposefully put between them—a distance that would soon be eliminated.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Remember to study for the midterm!” Brian called out as the hands on the clock reached the 12 and 5, stabbing the piece of chalk into the board and finishing his notes that no one cared for while his last class for the day flooded out of the lecture hall. The professor set the worn-down piece of chalk down on the tray and brushed his dusty hands against his pants. “It’s this—” he spun around to the deserted classroom and heaved a disappointed sigh, muttering to himself, “—Friday.”</p><p>Brian walked over to this desk and began to gather his belongings, his gaze flickering over to the opened door in hopes that Chrissie would be standing in the threshold, wanting to talk to him about last night; maybe even say that it was a mistake and she wanted to come back home. The doorway was clear, though, and it would be for the rest of the night.</p><p>With a heavy heart, the professor threw on his jacket, tossed his bag over his shoulder, and left the room, heading in the opposite direction of the university’s entrance. He took the flight of stairs leading to the second floor two steps at a time, briskly walking down the hall to the office he once was very familiar with. However, just like his classroom’s doorway, the office was empty—lights off, shades drawn, door locked.</p><p>“What the hell, Brian?”</p><p>His head snapped in the direction of the angered voice, his eyes doubling in size when he saw that it belonged to Freddie, the dark-haired man standing in the middle of the corridor with his arms crossed and his hip popped out to the side.</p><p>“Where were you last night?” Freddie continued his interrogation, “I invited you over for drinks, and you never showed up!” Brian parted his lips, ready to explain himself, but before he could find the words, the dark-haired man asked, “You know who did show up, though? <em>Your fucking wife</em>, that’s who. I had to listen to her and Mary <em>all </em>night talking about you and Roger. It was absolute torture!”</p><p>Brian, overwhelmed by the information that had been thrown his way, could only muster a stammered, “H-How did you even get here, Fred?”</p><p>“I have my ways,” Roger’s friend replied slyly, shortening the distance between him and the professor. Brian stepped back into the wall, fearful of what the dark-haired man was going to say or do next. Much to his relief, Freddie’s only remark was, “But that’s not what I’m here to discuss, Brian. I’m here because you stood me up, and I don’t get stood up.”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Fred,” Brian apologized, clutching his bag for protection.</p><p>“I don’t want your apologies. I want you to make it up to me,” Freddie informed him, a mischievous smile crawling onto his face, “And you know how you’re going to do it?”</p><p>A blush washed the professor’s cheeks pink. “No?”</p><p>“You’re going to buy me a drink.” He patted the professor on the cheek and started walking down the hallway in the direction Brian had come from, glancing over his shoulder when he noticed that the curly-haired man hadn’t followed him. “Well, what are you waiting for? You’re driving!”</p><p>*****</p><p>As Brian trudged down the sidewalk with Freddie—having allowed the dark-haired man to tell him where to go and winding up at the underground bar they met one another in—he couldn’t help but fall back into the insecure mindset that consumed him the first time he found himself in this position. However, he was accompanied by Roger then and felt extremely out of place. Now, a year later, the professor didn’t feel like such an outsider. He had yet to determine—let alone announce—where his sexuality truly lied, perhaps out of denial or confusion, but he believed that his brief affair with Roger had awarded him a certain amount of credibility, easing his nerves about entering the establishment whose demographic was completely lost to him the first time he walked through the doors.</p><p>After greeting a few friends whom Brian was unacquainted with, Freddie grabbed his hand and led him to the bar, ordering the two of them a martini and a vodka and tonic. While the former engaged the bartender in some light flirting, the latter scanned the room, remembering the boisterous crowd that filled it the night Roger had dragged him there to celebrate the acquisition of his first and only student who now was Brian’s. Tonight, the bar was relatively quiet, with only a few patrons scattered about—all seated, no one on the dance floor.</p><p>“Come on, Bri,” Freddie blurted out, nudging the professor out of the stupor he’d slipped into. They made their way across the bar and took a seat at one of the available booths, ironically the one that they’d sat at last year. “So,” the dark-haired man started, sliding the vodka and tonic he’d brought over across the table, “What happened?”</p><p>“Something came up,” Brian muttered, hesitantly accepting the drink. He knew the conversation that went down between him and Sting earlier that day was all in his head, but the fictitious replacement made a good point: the only way he was going to change things was if he made an honest effort, and he couldn’t do that by drinking himself under. One drink would lead to others, Brian knew that, but with the anticipatory way Freddie stared at him, he sensed an expectation to join him in drinking the night away—neglecting the fact that he had school the next day, and if he were late again, he wouldn’t get off so easily. So, with a defeated sigh, the professor brought the glass to his lips and tilted his head back, the clear liquid gliding his throat and warming his cold body.</p><p>The dark-haired man chuckled in amusement as Brian slammed the glass down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his jacket sleeve. “Someone’s thirsty,” he quipped, his failed attempt at humor earning him a glare. Freddie pursed his lips before taking a sip of his martini, responding to the professor’s answer, “Anyways, that’s not what I was talking about, darling. I’m over that. I was talking about with Chrissie.”</p><p>Brian crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that really what you brought me here for? I thought you wanted to get together to...to discuss what’s bothering me and how big a role Roger plays in all of it.”</p><p>“I’m afraid that ship’s sailed, my friend,” Freddie declared, taking another casual sip of the cocktail and smacking his lips together. “I’m more interested in what Chrissie did after finding out about you and Rog. I mean, she didn’t look too happy when she left my house last night, and I can’t imagine she was any better by the time she arrived home.”</p><p>The temperature in the room began to rise as the professor remembered her tearful eyes, her cheeks streaked with mascara, the raw corners of her lips, and the crack in her voice as she gave her husband the chance to prove himself; to refute the accusations being made against him—only for him to do neither. The wound was still fresh, and just thinking about it blurred his vision.</p><p>“I think I need another drink,” Brian murmured, blinking away the tears that surfaced in his eyes and snatching his empty glass.The tall professor rose up out of the booth and returned to the bar, asking for rum.</p><p>As he waited for the bartender to make his drink, arms folded on the bar top and gaze fixed on the clock hanging above the bottles of liquor behind the bar, an astonished, “Brian?” stole his attention. “Is that you?” He turned his head in the direction of the voice, regretting his decision immediately when his eyes fell upon the one and only Timothée, sitting at the opposite end of the bar. “My god, it is. What the hell are you doing here? Wait,” he gripped the edge of the counter, “don’t tell me you’re meeting up with someone. That would be too grand.”</p><p>The professor took in a deep breath, replying as calmly as he could manage, “No, I-I’m just getting a quick drink before heading home.” This was the first time Brian had seen Timothée since he kicked the headmistress out of his home, and considering how bitter they’d left things, he was surprised he was speaking to him.</p><p>“Sure, you are,” Chrissie’s ex-husband mused, smiling into the sip of his own martini, “Does she know you’re here?”</p><p>Brian swallowed the lump in his throat, debating on whether to continue the conversation or not. The more he contemplated it, the more he began to explore the possibility that maybe Timothée could help him. Why he would was beyond Brian’s wildest imagination, but he figured it was worth a shot—he didn’t have much else to lose. Timothée had been in Brian’s place before, and although the circumstances were slightly different, perhaps he could disclose how he managed to work things out with Chrissie after being discovered. After all, they didn’t separate until she became pregnant.</p><p>Basing his response on that logic, the professor dared to confess, “No, actually, she...she left me.”</p><p>Timothée’s smile grew. “You’re kidding.” Brian shook his head, teasing an amused laugh out of the ex-husband who stood up and relocated to the barstool next to Brian’s. “Was it because of you or her?”</p><p>The professor’s instinct was to tell him that it was both of them—that he’d cheated on her with Roger and she was cheating on him with Sting. However, the evidence to support the former claim had been laid out on the table while he had no real proof to uphold the latter—it was pure speculation contrived from experience. Therefore, he had to take the blame, and with contrition, he hung his head and answered, “Me.”</p><p>Timothée pounded a disbelieving fist into the sticky surface, shaking the drinks scattered atop it and narrowing the barkeep’s eyes. He lifted his hand and jabbed his pointer finger into Brian’s chest, saying, “I always knew there was something off about you, Brian, something you were hiding.” The corner of his lip twitched upward. “I just never thought it’d be the same thing I was.” He shifted his focus to the bartender heading their way, muttering, “It makes sense, though. People like you and me are the kind of people she’s attracted to—ones with secrets; ones who need a fantasy to cover up their reality.”</p><p>Brian’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Come on, Brian, look where you are. You’re not with her because you love her, and she’s not with you because she loves you. She’s with you because she’s using you, just like she used me,” Timothée divulged, taking the drink the bartender had set down for Brian and drinking from it himself. He finished nearly half the glass before elaborating, “You see, she was with someone else, Brian—some guy whose name started with an 'S', I don’t know.” <em>S for Sting</em>, the professor immediately thought<em>. </em>“But the only reason she got together with me was because her parents didn’t approve of that guy. They wanted someone stable; someone who could support her. He wasn’t capable of being or doing either, but I was.”</p><p>Brian glanced back at Freddie, hoping to use him as an excuse to remove himself from the situation that had suddenly become more uncomfortable than before. Unfortunately for the professor, the dark-haired man had engaged in conversation with someone else, temporarily forgetting about the professor he’d brought along.</p><p>“She acted like she loved me, like I meant something to her, and for a while I believed it, but eventually I learned it was all just for show,” Timothée continued, regaining Brian’s apprehensive attention. “That’s why I started sneaking around behind her back, because she couldn’t stand to be with me and I knew she was still seeing that guy whenever he was around. I thought what I did was only fair, but to her, I was risking everything she’d worked for.”</p><p>He brought the glass back up to his lips and downed the rest of the amber-colored liquid, letting out a small burp before revealing, “She’s such a hypocrite, though, because I didn’t know about you until that stupid Christmas party. She told me afterwards that it was in retaliation of my affair with Roger, but I know she started seeing you long before then. Probably because I wouldn’t give her a kid and you would.” His doubtful eyes scanned the professor up and down. “Considering you’re here, though, who knows if you really did?”</p><p>“I-I did,” Brian asserted, “We have a daughter together.”</p><p>“Okay, but are you sure it’s yours?”</p><p>The professor pressed his lips together, wishing he had just gone home and declined Freddie’s invitation—though it wasn’t so much an invitation as it was a demand. Brian didn’t want to think about Chrissie this; he didn’t want to believe that what Timothée was saying was true. However, in his state of mind, he found it difficult <em>not</em> to—seeing the subtle similarities in their experiences. Maybe Chrissie was right; he <em>was </em>just like her ex in more ways than he was aware of, and Timothée knew it too. That’s why he was playing on his emotions and fueling the fire that the professor had desperately been trying to tame.</p><p>“So...So, what’d you do?” Brian questioned anxiously, choosing to ignore Timothée’s suggestion that Liz wasn’t his. “Afterwards?” he elaborated, “When you found out?”</p><p>He shrugged his shoulders. “I moved on, and honestly, you should too. Be happy she left you; she’s nothing but trouble.”</p><p>The professor nodded his head, hearing what Timothée had said but not taking it to heart. It might have been true that Chrissie was just using him like she used Timothée, but Brian was using her too. He needed her like she needed him—to disguise the fact that he was in love with someone his parents, his colleagues, and the world didn’t want to see him with.</p><p>Timothée gestured for the barkeep to make him another drink, holding up two fingers to show that he wanted more than one. After the server rolled his eyes, Chrissie’s ex-husband turned back towards Brian, only to see him pulling out his wallet to pay for the drinks he’d ordered. “Oh, no, don’t do that,” Timothée told him, lowering the professor’s hand and flashing him a small, reassuring grin, “It’s on me.”</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>“Of course. I’m rich, remember?”</p><p>“W-Well, thanks,” Brian stammered with red cheeks, pocketing his wallet and telling him he should be getting back to his friend, throwing a thumb in Freddie’s direction—the conversation he got wrapped up in turning into something much more intimate. Timothée nodded his head in understanding and watched as the professor slunk back to the table, clearing his throat and announcing, “Hey, Fred, it’s time to go.”</p><p>The two men quickly separated, the stranger scrambling out of the booth. Freddie matted his tousled hair down and straightened his posture in an attempt to compose himself; mask the disorientation he felt from the rapid change in atmospheres. “What do you mean it’s time to go? We only had one drink, and you spent more time talking to whoever that was—" he threw a hand in the direction of the bar where Timothée downed the second of the two drinks he ordered, “—than you did me.”</p><p>“You only asked for a drink,” Brian reminded him bluntly, watching as Chrissie’s ex paid the bartender and headed for the door, winking at the professor before he left.</p><p>“Do you even know him?” Freddie scoffed, now standing beside him with crossed arms.</p><p>“No,” he lied, catching a glimpse of the dark-haired man’s distrustful gaze before tucking his hands into his pockets and walking out. “Come on.”</p><p>*****</p><p>Roger’s day was spent ruminating on his conversation with Freddie. Tim’s uncharacteristic approval of his departure seemed insignificant compared to Chrissie’s discovery of what exactly went down between him and her boyfriend at the time. The blonde could only imagine how much the headmistress resented him now, and what she would do to him as soon as he set foot on British soil again. The first time, he got lucky; she had something valuable to offer him in exchange for dissolving the affair. This time around, he already had what he wanted, and since Chrissie wasn’t a person that you crossed—let alone twice—it seemed unlikely that a simple trade would settle things.</p><p>Harboring a new set of doubts and fears about his upcoming trip, Roger went to work that night, hoping that the change in atmosphere would make him feel better. After all, the silence that consumed his and Tim’s apartment after their spat did nothing but amplify the conflicting thoughts consuming the blonde’s mind—whether to go to London, to make things right with the brunette, to see how Brian was holding up. Each decision proved too difficult to make and left Roger feeling torn. It was a miracle that he pulled himself together enough to arrive at the bar, only twenty minutes late.</p><p>“You’re welcome, Rog,” Geoff greeted with mock sarcasm, smirking behind the newspaper he held in hands—his nails painted a deep, glossy shade of red and his feet, propped up on the table in the break room, strapped into oversized black heels.</p><p>“For what?” the blonde muttered uninterestedly, clocking in and snatching one of the waist aprons off the rack.</p><p>“For taking such good care of your boyfriend, of course!” his fellow bartender exclaimed, slamming the periodical down on the table and smiling. “I got him home just like you asked. Don’t you think I deserve a little praise?”</p><p>“I didn’t ask, Geoff. You offered,” Roger reminded him, keeping his head hung low while tying the thin, fraying strings around his hips. The smile on Geoff’s face faded, his posture straightening as he recognized for the first time the blonde’s detachment. It was as though he wasn’t there, his body physically standing before his coworker but his mind wandering elsewhere.</p><p>“Quite bitter now, are we?” Geoff mused, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m assuming your night didn’t go well?”</p><p>“No, it went great, actually,” the blonde murmured, a slight grunt emanating from the back of his throat as he tightened the knot he made and finally met the bartender’s gaze—the corner of his lips twitching upward into an almost sinister smirk. “Got my dream gig, a good fuck, and the morning off out of it.”</p><p>“Well, then, I think a ‘thank you’ is still very much in order,” Geoff teased, watching as Roger rolled his eyes and headed for the door leading to the bar. “Hey, wait up,” he called out, scrambling out his seat and catching Roger by the shoulder before he could escape. The blonde tore himself out of his coworker’s grasp, a terrified look flashing across his features as he pushed them apart. “What the hell’s going on with you?”</p><p>Roger heaved a sigh, slipping his hands into the pockets of his waist apron and answering uneasily, “I don’t want to talk about it, Geoff. It’s...It’s complicated.”</p><p>“There you go again with the ‘complicated,’ Rog.” The bartender shook his head. “What did I tell you about acting like you can’t talk to me about things? We’re not that different, you and me. Remember?”</p><p>“But we’re <em>not</em> the same, Geoff!” the blonde cried, cracking underneath the invisible pressures bearing down on him. “You don’t know me, and you don’t know what I’ve done!” With that, he broke out into the bar—welcomed by the blaring distractions all around him. The deafening music, the sweaty bodies, the endless drinks, they all helped to keep Roger away from Geoff, away from Tim, and away from his past that had suddenly returned with a vengeance he wasn’t prepared for.</p><p>The blonde thought that by leaving, he was preventing this kind of catastrophe from happening, and for a year, he had. Little did he know that his demise would be brought about by his friend’s fiancé. He knew that Mary hated him, but he never imagined that she would betray him like this. If anything, he figured he’d done her a favor by leaving, just as he did Chrissie—giving both of them their men’s full attention. It didn’t matter, though. He’d been found out, and instead of staying away like he should have, he was headed right back into the lion’s den; right back into the boxing ring.</p><p>To numb the pain of that reality, Roger took his job lightly that night, matching each shot that was ordered, accepting invitations out to the dance floor, and even escaping upstairs with a stranger at one point. Had the alcohol not been coursing through his veins—lowering his inhibitions and making him forget how degrading his actions were; bringing him right back to the place he tried so hard to distance himself from—he would’ve stopped himself, but he didn’t, and he woke up the next morning with a fuzzy recollection of what landed him on the couch in a room he didn’t instantly recognize.</p><p>A groan slipped past the blonde’s lips as he sat up—his back hunched, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together out in front of him—and gazed tiredly into the mirror across from him. His reflection showed a torn shirt, disheveled hair, a prominent love bite on his neck, and a generous wad of cash tucked into the waistband of his pants, which weren’t pants at all, but a skirt. He looked down with furrowed brows and pulled out the unanticipated payment, flicking through the bills that amounted to more than the blonde had ever earned in New York City.</p><p>“Holy shit,” Roger mumbled to himself.</p><p>“Almost makes it worth it, doesn’t it?”</p><p>The blonde’s wide eyes flew up to meet Geoff’s, a smirk painted across his face. The bartender peeled himself away from the threshold and joined Roger on the couch, asking with a sigh, “Still think I don’t know you?”</p><p>Those six words dispelled the haze surrounding Roger’s situation, causing him to jump up from the couch and turn to face his coworker. “Did you put me up to this?” he yelled.</p><p>Geoff chuckled. “Why on earth would I put you up to this, Rog?”</p><p>“I don’t know!” he shouted, scanning the room for answers before his frantic eyes locked on the mirror, noticing how similar they looked. He returned his attention to Geoff and accused him that, “You did this to prove that we’re alike.”</p><p>“And we are!” the bartender exclaimed, standing up and resting his hands on his hips, “But <em>I</em> didn’t make you drink yourself into oblivion and sneak upstairs with one of our newest patrons last night. That was all <em>you</em>, sweetheart.”</p><p>“No, that wasn’t me,” Roger objected, shaking his head, “I’m not that person anymore.”</p><p>Geoff smiled sadly at the visibly upset blonde. “Roger...”</p><p>“I’m not!” he screamed, turning away from the bartender and searching the littered floor for his pants, muttering over and over again as he did so, “I’m not...”</p><p>Heaving a frustrated sigh, Geoff crossed his arms and watched as the blonde wandered around the small room, sifting through the clutter before giving up and crossing his arms over his chest. He turned to look at his coworker with teary eyes. “I’m not,” Roger repeated once more, this iteration sterner than the last—as if it wasn’t just Geoff he was trying to convince.</p><p>“Whatever you say, Rog,” the submissive bartender replied, his voice low.</p><p>The blonde tilted his head down in shame and walked out of the room, not wanting to change in front of the man who really <em>was</em> just like him, more than he was willing to admit. He trudged down the hallway—a sick feeling forming in the pit of his stomach with each heavy step he took—and pushed in the door to the dressing room. He froze in the doorway, staring at the vanity that elicited a vivid memory from the night before—seated at the mirrored desk by the no-name he’d been whisked away by into the dressing room and told, once he was ready, to find him in the room he woke up in. He even remembered the promising kiss the young, afroed, mustached stranger had left on his cheek, and the grazing of his calloused fingers as he separated himself from the blonde and sauntered out into the hall.</p><p>A shiver traveled down Roger’s spine at the recollection. With a deep breath, the blonde pushed past it and into the room, slamming the door behind him. He stepped out of the borrowed skirt and into his pants that were draped over the vanity’s chair, wiped the smeared makeup off his face, and tried his best to control his hair that somehow seemed even harder to manage now that it was shorter. Just as he set the comb down, a knock rattled on the door.</p><p>“Leave me the fuck alone, Geoff!” the blonde snapped.</p><p>“It’s not Geoff,” a deep voice replied, attracting Roger’s attention. His torso twisted and his cheeks reddened as he watched Jay approach him, the large man towering over him with narrowed eyes and arms folded over his chest. “Want to tell me what happened last night, Taylor?”</p><p>His jaw dropped in a sad attempt to answer the boss’s question, but no words came out.</p><p>“You disappeared from behind the bar at one point and never came back,” he reminded the blonde, gripping his employee’s shoulder and causing him to tense up. “Some saw you on the dance floor, and some saw you sneak up here with someone.” His eyes flickered to the mirror—the corner of his lip pricked upward in a smirk.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Jay,” Roger apologized, embarrassed by his actions; ashamed that he had let his past affect him like it did. “I-I don’t know what came over me. I was just—”  </p><p>“Just what, Taylor?”</p><p>The blonde shifted uncomfortably in the chair, reluctantly meeting his boss’s gaze through the reflective surface. For nearly a year, Roger had been able to escape the ghosts of his old self, but only because he turned a blind eye to them and willed himself to believe that he’d done it; that he actually succeeded in distancing himself from the life he used to live and all the regrets it fostered. What last night proved, though, was that he hadn’t. It proved that he’d been living a lie—a lie that was crumbling right before his very eyes.</p><p>Roger pressed his lips together, trying to gain the courage to confess to the man holding him down, but all he could get out was a repeated, “I just—”</p><p>“Needed extra money?”</p><p>A baffled expression appeared on Roger’s face. “What?”</p><p>Jay’s smirk evolved into a smile. “You’re not the first bartender I’ve had who needs a little supplement to their paycheck,” he chuckled. “All you had to do was ask me. I would’ve said yes.”</p><p>The blush in Roger’s cheeks intensified, followed by a mumbled, “Thanks, Jay, but I...I’m not looking to make more money. Not this way.” He glanced up at the man who managed not only the bar, but the bordello above it, with a frown. “Last night was a mistake that can’t happen ever again. I’m sorry.” Before Jay could try to persuade him otherwise, seeing in his eyes that he intended to for both their sakes, the blonde rushed out of the room, taking the back staircase and forgetting to clock out as he burst outside and wove his way through the mid-morning crowd, trying to escape the inescapable.</p><p>Roger’s past had finally caught up to him, and in just a few days, was bringing him back to where he belonged.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys! It's my sister's birthday today, and although she doesn't read any of my stories on here, this chapter's dedicated to her. Happy Birthday, @nachaelsquared :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What are you doing, Rog?” a low, sincere voice disrupted the silence that consumed the blonde’s Saturday evening. He glanced back over his shoulder to see Tim standing in the doorway between their bedroom and the balcony, leaning against the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips drawn into a straight line. It had been a few days since their falling out, and although they began to talk more as they week progressed, their conversations were mostly out of necessity. <em>What do you want for supper? Do you know where I left my wallet? Care for a smoke?</em> This question was the first that couldn’t be answered with a simple <em>I don’t know </em>or a <em>yes </em>or <em>no</em>.</p><p>Roger—sitting crossed-legged on the floor of the balcony—remained quiet, returning his attention to the cigarette he had trouble lighting. Tim rolled his eyes and slipped back into the apartment, making his way into the kitchen and pulling open the refrigerator to grab two beers for him and his boyfriend. When he stood back and shut the door, his gaze fell upon the plane ticket lying out on the counter. Roger had brought it home the day before, saying nothing more about it other than to forbid Tim from touching it.</p><p>The brunette couldn’t help but take a closer look at it, though, switching out the amber, condensation-speckled bottles for the slip of paper. Stamped in red was the date <strong>24 Oct 1976 </strong>with a departure from <strong>New York </strong>at<strong> 09:30 EST </strong>and an arrival in <strong>London </strong>at<strong> 21:30 GMT</strong>. It was a nonstop, one-way trip home.</p><p>Tim bit his lip, resenting the fact that the blonde was still seeing his plan through. He thought for sure that Roger was going to change his mind and realize that what he was doing was just a big waste of time; that this “gig” he was so hellbent on going after was bound to end up just like the last one. He had half the mind to tear the ticket up in shreds and save his boyfriend the heartache, but he knew that wouldn’t keep Roger around.</p><p>Ever since Chrissie walked in on him and Timothée and offered him the opportunity to quit the sordid profession he found himself in, Roger adopted this independence that Tim struggled to accept. His resistance to change was purely selfish, feeling purposeless without the business he’d built around the blonde. He thought he’d rediscover that purpose in New York City, but instead he felt more lost than ever. All he wanted was for his boyfriend to come back to him, but he seemed lost too.</p><p>As the anger bubbling inside of him boiled over, he threw the ticket down and snatched the bottles of beer from the counter, returning to the balcony where Roger exhaled a relaxing breath of smoke, watching out of the corner of his eye as Tim sat down next to him and set one of the two drinks in front of him. “So,” he muttered, popping the cap off his bottle and taking a swig, “Tomorrow.”</p><p>“I’m still going, Tim,” Roger mumbled.</p><p>“I know you are,” the brunette snapped, tightening his grip on the drink in his hands. He turned his head and met the blonde’s apprehensive gaze, the sad, baby blues averting his brown eyes to his lap. “It’s just...what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”</p><p>Roger pressed his lips together, bringing the burning cigarette back to his lips and muttering, “I don’t know. Maybe you can start meeting some of those late-night callers you like talking to. Practice what you preach.”</p><p>Tim glared at his boyfriend, not finding amusement in his sarcastic response. He tipped his head back and swallowed the rest of his drink, setting the empty bottle down beside him and reclaiming the one he brought out for Roger. “I’m being serious, here. We haven’t been apart like this before.”</p><p>The blonde kept quiet, shaking his head and blowing out a steady stream of smoke in the opposite direction of the brunette. “You say that like we’re not adults who can take care of ourselves.”</p><p>Although he didn’t mean to, Roger had spoken to a truth whose existence he hadn’t been fully aware of before. He knew that his and Tim’s relationship thrived on dependence, but he never fully realized just how much the latter relied on him. Despite having to grow up on his own—his drunken, largely absent father providing him nothing but bruises and scars—the brunette didn’t know how to take care of himself. With Roger, though, he got by. He was supported, loved, cared for. He had no idea how he would survive without him.</p><p>Tim snatched the cigarette from his boyfriend’s grasp and drew an anxious drag from it, ignoring the scowl that appeared on the blonde’s face as he stood up and retreated inside. Roger rolled his eyes and took back the beer bottle Tim left behind, twisting the cap off and bringing it to his lips.</p><p>He refused to show it, but he had concerns about going to London too—where he would stay, what he would do to support himself, and how he was going to avoid Brian. It wasn’t that he wanted to stay away from him—god knows that ever since Roger moved to America, he’s wanted to go back—but he knew the second he fell back into those long, slender arms, it’d be over for the both of them. Brian had a family to take care of, and Roger had Tim.</p><p>The blonde lowered the bottle into his lap and glanced back, seeing the brunette perched on the edge of their bed—facing away from the balcony. Soft sobs racked his entire body, the cigarette he still had possession of doing little to calm his nerves. The spectacle was almost enough to bring Roger inside and fix the problem like he always did, but the blonde was tired of reverting to the person he used to be. He wanted a fresh start, the one he was too scared to take a year ago, so he stayed out on the balcony, finishing his beer and watching as the stars twinkled in the clear, dark blue sky.</p><p>The night was almost peaceful, that is, until Roger heard a loud thud from behind him. He threw his head over his shoulder, watching as Tim stormed out of the bedroom. The blonde instinctively shot up from the ground, his chosen will to resist the draw of his boyfriend’s problems being forgotten as he slipped inside and witnessed the hole in the wall that Tim had created. Roger heaved a frustrated sigh and rested his hands on his hips, his eyes flickering over to the brunette who reappeared in the doorway with the telephone in his hands.</p><p>Tim raised the device and sneered, “‘Thought I’d talk with some of those callers you told me to meet up with.”</p><p>Roger tipped his head towards the damage. “You didn’t have to kick in the wall.”</p><p>“Yeah, and you didn’t have to go ahead and pursue our dream all by yourself,” the brunette retorted bitterly, heading for the balcony when the blonde caught him by the arm.</p><p>“You and I both know that dream died for you the second you started dressing me up like a girl and realized you could make money off of it,” he growled, his grip tightening and his gaze narrowing.</p><p>Tim clenched his jaw, ripping his arm out of the blonde’s grasp and reminding him harshly, “I didn’t make you dress up like that. You wanted to. You can’t blame me for supporting your interests.”</p><p>Roger scoffed in disbelief of the words coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth. His instinct was to repeat the last three words back to him and argue that the brunette hadn’t supported him in all the time they’d known each other; that <em>he’d </em>been the one supporting <em>him</em>. However, he knew that kind of reaction would only bring the two of them back to the place they always wound up in when they disagreed on things: <em>It’s your fault. No, it’s </em>your<em> fault. How is it </em>my<em> fault? It’s always your fault!</em></p><p>Not wanting to fall into that oh-so-familiar and never-ending cycle of blame, the blonde crossed his arms and replied sternly, “Then support me in this, Tim. You know I’ve always wanted to play music, and now I’ve been given the chance—a <em>second </em>chance. Support me in taking it.”</p><p>The brunette blinked away the tears that pricked his eyes, cradling the phone and escaping to the balcony. He took one last, sad look at Roger before sliding the glass door shut—leaving it open just a crack for the phone cord—and taking his seat in the center of the terrace. The blonde watched with disappointment as Tim leaned back and waited for the calls to roll in—after all, it was almost time.</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes and circled the bed, taking a seat on the foot of it and staring into the closet that had yet to be emptied of his clothes. He hung his head in shame. He hadn’t started packing because he was afraid to tell Tim how long he’d be gone for, and that he didn’t intend on coming back. His plan was to gather his things while his boyfriend was asleep, leaving in the morning before he woke up and successfully evading the guaranteed repercussions that would follow. However, with the way things had played out that night, he doubted he’d get that lucky.</p><p>The blonde turned his head over his shoulder, hearing the phone ring for the first time that night. “Hey there, handsome,” Tim greeted the caller, using a seductive tone that Roger had grown unaccustomed to. “What are you wearing tonight?”</p><p>He sat there for a bit longer, pushing off the inevitable even more while listening to Tim’s voice drop lower and lower. With the way he was talking, it was difficult for Roger not to be jealous of the person on the other end of the line. Tim spoke to them with such passion, such care. <em>If only he spoke to me that way.</em></p><p>That’s when it hit him—if tonight had proved anything, it was that the two of them weren’t the best at communicating with words. Actions, however, actions took them places they never imagined going. They brought them close; they tore them apart. Roger didn’t have to say anything to set his plan into motion—all he had to do was act.</p><p>As a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, Roger undid the top few buttons of his wrinkled shirt. He stood up and made his way for the balcony, stopping to catch a quick glimpse of himself in the reflection of the sliding glass door and mess his hair up—the new, short locks easier to control than the old, long ones. Satisfied with his appearance, he took a deep breath and sauntered out onto the terrace, giving Tim a start that was quickly passed over as the brunette returned to his call.</p><p>The blonde deftly slipped his hand around the telephone and hung it up on the receiver. “Hey!” Tim shouted as his boyfriend replaced the phone in his lap, straddling him and draping his arms over his shoulders. “What the fuck—”</p><p>Roger quieted Tim by pressing the tip of his fingers against his lips, dragging it down his chin and his chest, and leaning in for a kiss that seemed like ages in the making. With all the fighting, tears, and silent treatments, they knew they were bound to end up in this place at some point. Except this time, they wouldn’t wake up the next day and everything would be like it should. This time, Tim would find himself in bed, alone, and Roger would be on a flight to London, next to Stewart who had already pulled on an eye-mask and asked the blonde to wake him up when they got there.</p><p>*****</p><p>Brian groaned as a loud knocking lured him out of the sleep he drank himself into, the light shining through the window providing him with an instant headache. He grabbed at the covers that had collected on the unoccupied side of the mattress—a few empty bottles rolling off onto the wooden floors—and buried himself underneath them. The professor sighed in relief when the pounding stopped, closing his eyes and attempting to slip back into the slumber that would make the day go by quicker. However, it wasn’t long before the banging started back up—harder and faster this time around.</p><p>“Leave me alone!” he shouted into his pillow, tugging at the blankets around him.</p><p>“Brian, it’s your parents!” his father’s voice boomed, the walls doing little to absorb the ferocity of his tone. The professor’s eyes popped wide open. “Let us in!”</p><p>Brian ripped the covers off himself and scrambled out of bed, searching the room for something acceptable to toss on to greet his impatient parents. When his father began to beat on the door once more—the sound intensifying the pain in his head—the professor snatched a robe that Chrissie had left behind in the closet and shoved his arms through the sleeves as he descended the staircase, nearly tripping when he reached the bottom. He latched onto the doorknob and pulled the door in, feigning a grin as best he could.</p><p>“‘Morning,” he greeted, immediately noticing the formal wear both his mother and father were adorned in and the shocked expressions that crossed their faces. Harold and Ruth had never seen their son so unkempt before, with his hair a complete mess, his cheeks, chin, and upper lip hidden by a thin yet visible layer of stubble, and the stench of alcohol lingering on his breath and clothes that hadn’t been changed since he came home from the university on Friday—two days ago.</p><p>“Come on in,” the professor implored, stepping to the side and gesturing towards the back of his lonely home. “Sorry it took me so long to answer, I—”</p><p>“Why aren’t you dressed?” Harold demanded to know, cutting his son’s apology and explanation short.</p><p>A blush rose in Brian’s cheeks—his mind spinning as he tried desperately to find an answer that would appease his father. It wasn’t like he could tell him the truth, that he’d spent his entire weekend cooped up in his house, drinking and sleeping the days away. He hadn’t even told them about Chrissie yet, too embarrassed and humiliated to confide in his parents about what happened. With all that considered, the professor settled on, “Oh, I, erm...I had a late night. ‘Didn’t get to sleep until two, three in the morning. Grading midterms.” He hadn’t even taken the tests home.</p><p>“You poor thing,” Ruth chimed in, much more understanding and forgiving than her husband who grimaced at the boy’s response.</p><p>“You do realize what today is, right?” Harold questioned, maintaining a narrowed stare with the professor—his arms crossed over his chest and his jaw clenched.</p><p>Brian scratched the back of his head, guessing by his parents’ attire, “Sunday?”</p><p>“Not just any Sunday, Brian. It’s your daughter’s christening today.”</p><p>He chuckled, thinking that his father was just messing with him; that perhaps this was a dream—or nightmare—and he was still in bed, sound asleep. However, this was very much real, as Brian determined by the unwavering gazes locked on him, waiting for him to reply. His reddened cheeks burned warmer as he muttered, “No, it’s not.”</p><p>“Yes, it is,” Harold disagreed sternly.</p><p>Brian’s eyes flickered over to his mother, hoping she would provide him with some sign that this was all just some game her husband was playing to get on his nerves. All Ruth could do, though, was nod her head in accord. “But...but Chrissie and I only talked about it once or twice,” the professor argued calmly, returning his attention to his displeased father. “We...we never...made it official or anything. She would’ve told me if we did.”</p><p>“Well, maybe if you weren’t having so many <em>late nights</em>, you would’ve remembered her telling you,” Harold chastised him, indirectly addressing the elephant in the room. Brian tilted his head down in avoidance of his father’s glare, feeling even more defeated than he already felt. He didn’t think he could sink any lower, but this unexpected visit proved he could.</p><p>“We’ve all been waiting at the church for you for the past half hour,” his mother disclosed, adjusting her grip on the handbag that coordinated with her outfit. “We tried ringing you, but for some reason, none of the calls would go through.”</p><p>The professor took a quick glance back into his kitchen, where lying on the table was his telephone—ripped from the wall a few nights ago in a fit of rage, the silence killing him. He’d driven himself mad waiting for Chrissie to call, and he even started believing that if it wasn’t Chrissie, it’d be Roger, but when no calls were received after an entire night of waiting, the professor stood up from the chair, rushed across the room, and yanked the device off the wall. He had yet to put it back.</p><p>Brian frowned at the unpleasant memory before meeting his parents’ concerned gazes once more and announcing, “I-I guess I’ll go get ready then. I’m really sorry for the hold up.”</p><p>“You should be,” his father sneered, turning a cold shoulder to the professor and retreating to his car parked out in the street. Brian clenched his jaw and fists, resentful of the way his father looked down on him, not because he’d always shown disdain for the choices he made, but because this time, even Brian was ashamed of the man he’d let himself become. He’d been living a lie, and now that Chrissie had found him out, it was only a matter of time before everyone else did too. What did she tell them when she showed up at the church without him? Did she tell them about their fight? About her leaving and taking Liz? Did she tell them what it was about?</p><p>Before the spiraling thoughts could pull Brian under, his mother placed a soothing hand on his upper arm and flashed him a small, reassuring grin. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” she murmured, giving him a slight squeeze before trailing after her husband who’d already situated himself in the running vehicle. The professor heaved a sigh and sunk back into his house, slamming the door behind him.</p><p>*****</p><p>Dread washed over Brian as he and his parents pulled into the church’s car park, for he was being thrown into a situation he hadn’t been prepared for. In addition to not being made aware of the occasion, this would be the first time seeing Chrissie after their spat, and with their friends and family there as witnesses, he wasn’t sure how it would go. Would she be civil and put on a smile, or would she make it known to everyone that her husband was just like the last? He prayed for the former but felt like the latter was more in his cards.</p><p>Harold turned the ignition off and stepped out of the vehicle, his wife following suit. Brian nervously adjusted the suit he’d slipped into and stared at the chapel towering over him, his parents leaving him behind in the car as they made their way up the steps and into the place of worship. He wouldn’t consider himself a religious man, but he didn’t think that God would be too forgiving for what he’d done. For all he knew, he’d cross that threshold and go up in flames. He sure deserved it.</p><p>“What are you waiting for, boy?” Harold shouted, snapping the professor out of the worried daze he’d fallen into. “Hurry up!”</p><p>Brian took in a deep breath and scurried to join his parents’ side, entering the building with them and thankfully not spontaneously combusting. A heavy weight sat on his shoulders, though, as he scanned the mixture faces turned his way—some annoyed, some surprised, and one that nearly stopped his rapidly beating heart.</p><p>“There you are,” Chrissie greeted him with a radiant smile as she approached them with Liz in her arms—the baby girl dressed in a pristine, snow white christening gown and matching bonnet. Brian couldn’t hold back the tears that began to waver in his eyes, the sight too much to bear and reminding him of all he lost. “You ready?” she asked, bouncing on her heels to keep her daughter happy.</p><p>The professor—too baffled and overwhelmed to speak—nodded his head, and together with Liz, they walked down the aisle to the altar. Brian wondered if this is how it would’ve felt if they were to have had a wedding, with everyone’s judgmental eyes following him as if they knew it was all a façade; a front he and Chrissie were putting on to cast the illusion that everything was okay when it wasn’t. He wondered how many of their friends and family knew that their marriage and family was a sham, and how many of them had already told someone else. There was one person he knew for sure fell into that category, and that was Freddie, standing beside Mary in one of the pews with a couple of the professor and headmistress’s colleagues. Brian’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, a wide grin stretching across the dark-haired man’s face as he watched the pair join the priest.</p><p>The ceremony went by smoothly, and although a good portion of the congregation had left beforehand, a fair amount of them stayed for the reception afterwards—despite not knowing Chrissie and Brian personally. Luckily, there had been enough refreshments for everyone. The professor lingered by the punch bowl, eyeing the headmistress as she chatted with some friends of hers. Liz had been handed off to her mother, who sat at a table with Brian’s parents—their backs turned to one another in avoidance of awkward conversation.</p><p>When Chrissie and her friends parted ways, Brian tried to take the opportunity to go after her and confront her about everything that happened. After all, it had been nearly an entire week, and even though they worked at the same institution, the headmistress had somehow managed to successfully avoid the professor at all costs. Her sudden change in behavior threw him for a loop, though, encouraging the premonition that—just like everything else—it was all for show. However, before Brian could even make one step in her direction, a hand dropped on his shoulder and spun him around.</p><p>“Freddie,” the startled professor addressed the guest, straightening his jacket, “W-What a surprise to see you here.”</p><p>“I’m surprised to see you here too,” the dark-haired man replied slyly, folding his arms over his chest. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you with the beard.” His lips curled up into a mischievous smirk. “I like it.”</p><p>The blush in Brian’s cheeks returned for the second time that day. “Thanks,” he mumbled, slipping his hands into his pockets and swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet. His eyes flickered over to the table Chrissie had wandered off to, taking Liz from her mother’s care as well as the diaper bag she’d left with the night she visited Mary—unbeknownst to Brian at the time—and walked out of the room. He assumed it was to change Liz’s diaper, something he would’ve had the responsibility of had Chrissie not taken her from him.</p><p>“So, what took you so long?” Freddie inquired, asking the question whose answer everyone at the reception wanted to know but didn’t have the nerve to find out. “Were you at the airport?”</p><p>The professor chuckled awkwardly, reluctantly shifting his focus back to Roger’s friend. “Why would I be at the airport?”</p><p>The stall owner scoffed in disbelief. “Well, because Roger’s coming back today.”</p><p>Brian froze, the words hitting his ears even more shocking than the smile on Chrissie’s face when he arrived. “What?”</p><p>“Don’t tell me you didn’t know, Brian,” Freddie teased, playfully punching him in the arm. When the professor shook his head, the dark-haired man clicked his tongue and moved his hands to his hips. “He didn’t tell you, did he?” Brian shook his head again, the tears he’d suppressed for the ceremony resurfacing. “Oh my god, Brian, I—” Before he could finish his sentence, Brian rushed out of the room, flying past Chrissie who had just come out of the bathroom with Liz.</p><p>“Brian?” she called out, her plea going ignored as the professor burst through the doors at the end of the hallway. “Brian!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The professor paced back and forth outside the chapel, trying to sort through his racing thoughts. He never thought this day would come, certain that his and Roger’s farewell at the university was the last time he’d ever see him. Yet here Roger was, coming back.</p><p>Brian didn’t know how to feel about the blonde’s return. Excitement, fear, lust, and anger washed over him like tides crashing upon a shore, one right after the other. The rapid change in emotions secluded him in a world of his own, deaf and blind to the headmistress who’d appeared outside—their daughter still in her arms. It wasn’t until Chrissie interrupted the professor’s path that he finally noticed her, immediately snapping him out of the trance he’d coaxed himself into.</p><p>“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded to know, her voice low even though it was only the two of them in earshot.</p><p>“What the hell am <em>I </em>doing?” he repeated her, his wide eyes bordering on delirium. “What the hell are <em>you</em> doing?” He went to shove her back but stopped himself, meeting his daughter’s innocent gaze. She was only a few months old, but those little eyes of hers had a power over Brian that he couldn’t withstand. She was his kryptonite.</p><p>The headmistress scoffed, not realizing how lucky she was to have Liz in her arms in that moment. “I’m just making sure you’re alright. You stormed out of there like someone told you your mother died.”</p><p>Brian’s eyebrows knit together. “What? No. I just—” His voice trailed off, the words he intended to say escaping him. He was going to tell her about Roger, but before he could, the thought crossed his mind that, if he did, she would intervene and ruin any possibilities the two had of seeing one another again. The professor didn’t know for sure what would come of his and the former music instructor’s reunion, but he didn’t want the chance of it being destroyed before it could even happen.</p><p>So, instead, he decided to address her first comment and confess, “I’m not alright. You left me a week ago and told me that I couldn’t see my daughter again until I got my priorities straight. Yet today, it’s suddenly Liz’s christening, and you’re acting like nothing happened. What’s that all about?”</p><p>Just like that, the mask that the headmistress had thrown on disappeared—revealing the bitter resentment that lingered from the betrayal. “Well what else was I supposed to do?” she whispered angrily. “Tell everyone that you’re a fag and that the only reason you were with me was because you knocked me up?” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that would’ve gone over <em>so </em>well, Brian.”</p><p>“You could’ve told me,” the professor grumbled, crossing his arms and turning his head in the opposite direction of the church. He located his father’s vehicle in the car park and began to wonder how easy it would be to drive off in it without attracting anyone’s attention. However, with Chrissie there, right in front of him, he figured his chances were low.</p><p>“Look,” the headmistress sighed, “I’ve been thinking a lot this week about you, about me, about <em>us</em>, and...and I want us to try and work this out.” Brian slowly returned his gaze to Chrissie, his even wider eyes meeting hers in disbelief. A question of clarity teetered at the tip of his tongue, but before he could gather the wits to ask, she explained, “It’s just that, we both have reputations to uphold, Bri, and it wouldn’t look good for either of us if word got out about you.”</p><p>“About me? What about <em>you</em>?” he cried, throwing his hands at her, “You...You’re living just as much of a lie as I am!”</p><p>She scoffed, the corners of her lips pricking upwards into an incredulous smile. “I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“Timothée told me all about your relationship, Chrissie,” Brian disclosed frankly, taking quite the opposite approach his wife had when confronting him about his affair with Roger. “I know you were only with him because your parents didn’t approve of the first guy you were with, and you only got with me because you wanted a baby and he wouldn’t give that to you.” The paleness that flushed the headmistress’s face did all but help her cause, instantly validating her ex-husband’s claims.</p><p>“You can’t possibly believe that’s true, Brian,” she murmured.</p><p>“Why shouldn’t I?” he snapped, shortening the distance between him and her—only to look down at his daughter and take a step back. “You...You lied to me, Chrissie. You lied to me about being married, and you lied to me about why we were together.” He hung his head in shame, muttering, “For all I know, that story you told me about giving Timothée your everything for twelve years and getting nothing in return was all a lie too.”</p><p>The headmistress tightened her jaw, her grip on the baby following suit. “That wasn’t a lie, Brian. I meant what I said.”</p><p>“But it wasn’t really about him, was it?” Brian’s eyes traveled up from the pavement and landed on Chrissie’s. “It was about the first guy, the one you actually wanted to be with but couldn’t.” The headmistress’s wavering gaze flickered to the side, her heart beating just as fast as the professor’s was when he learned about Roger’s return.</p><p>Brian pressed his lips together, the tension between them more pronounced.</p><p>Their situation was a tricky one. If the truth were to be revealed, it wasn’t just one of them that would go down—it’d be them both. Too much had happened for the couple to cut ties cleanly; to wipe their hands of the mess they made and move on, as Timothée suggested. They had Liz to think about, their careers, their reputations. They were in this together, and the vows they’d made on short notice meant more now than ever before. <em>To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.</em></p><p>With those words ringing in his ears, Brian heaved a sigh and brought his hand to the back of his neck. Despite the cold, autumn season they found themselves in, the air began to grow warm. “So, you said something about working this out?”</p><p>Chrissie’s narrowed eyes trailed back to the tall man standing before her. “It seems kind of pointless now, doesn’t it?” she replied bitterly.</p><p>The professor nodded his head in slight agreement, but admitted, “No, because you’re right. We can’t let anyone find out about what we’ve done. We’d be done for if they did.”</p><p>Hope glimmered faintly in the headmistress’s eyes. “What are you saying, Bri?”</p><p>He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, knowing he couldn’t come back from what he was about to propose—just like his first kiss with Roger. “I’m saying we should give this a second try.” Brian smirked and ran his hand through Liz’s hair. “For her sake and ours.”</p><p>Chrissie let out a relieved laugh, burying herself in the professor’s chest and wrapping her free arm around his back. At first, he tensed up, unacquainted with the affectionate gesture that felt foreign to him, but the longer she stayed close to him—silent tears falling from her eyes—the more he relaxed. He even went so far as to place a kiss on the top of her head and pull her in, their daughter snuggled comfortably between them. They were a family again.</p><p>*****</p><p>Freddie watched with an astonished eye as Brian and Chrissie returned to the reception hall, the professor holding his daughter—leaving the headmistress to carry the baby bag. The dark-haired man’s eyebrow arched as the pair scanned the room with smiles on their faces, Brian’s fading when he spotted the curious onlooker. He whispered something inaudible to his wife before breaking away from her side and approaching the table where Freddie and his fiancé sat.</p><p>Mary gasped and shot up from her seat. “There’s my little angel!” she cooed, meeting the professor halfway and taking Liz from his grasp. She denied the baby’s father the chance to object by wandering off, tickling the little girl’s stomach and speaking gibberish to her.</p><p>Brian met Freddie’s equally unamused gaze, the latter muttering, “I really did try to convince Chrissie to choose other godparents, Brian, but Mary kept insisting it be us. Your poor wife didn’t even have a choice; Mary pulled out the water works and everything. I couldn’t stop her.”</p><p>“I’m not surprised,” the professor chuckled, lowering himself into the newly available seat next to Freddie and taking a sip from the abandoned glass of punch. “I just don’t know why you’re still with her.”</p><p>“Probably the same reason you’re still with your wife,” Freddie replied cheekily, resting against the table with his fingers intertwined and a wide grin curling the corners of his lips up. Brian slowly lowered the glass back down to the table, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist and glancing across the room at the woman in question. The dark-haired man leaned in and whispered, “What happened to you going to see Roger?”</p><p>The assumption whipped the professor’s head back around. “What made you think I was going to see him?” he asked, a strong defensiveness to his response.</p><p>Freddie’s face dropped. “Are you seriously asking me that?” He threw his hand toward the door. “You ran out of here like a madman after I told you he was coming back. What else was I supposed to think?”</p><p>Brian stopped counting how many times he was humiliated that day, but this conversation carved another tally in the scoreboard. He shifted uncomfortably in the stiff chair and murmured, “I just needed to get some fresh air, that’s all.”</p><p>“Too bad Roger wasn’t there to run away with you like last time,” the dark-haired man sighed, earning a wide-eyed look from the professor that took him a disconcerting amount of time to notice. “What? Roger’s my best friend; we talk. Do you really think he wouldn’t tell me all about your <em>one night </em>together?”</p><p>“<em>I</em> haven’t told anyone,” Brian murmured, the red in his cheeks growing a shade deeper.</p><p>“Well that’s because your only best friend moved to America, darling,” Freddie suggested, snatching the drink the professor had taken a sip from and mirroring his previous actions—finishing the glass. He popped his lips and began to tilt the empty glass side to side, meeting Brian’s embarrassed gaze and tacking on, “Not to mention he’s the one you slept with.”</p><p>“I can’t see him again, Freddie,” he blurted out, swiping the smug grin from the dark-haired man’s face. Brian hung his head and twiddled his thumbs in his lap, explaining, “I want more than anything to see him again, but...but things are different now.” His hazel eyes dared to meet the ones starting right back at them, filled with an emotion he’d experienced a lot of lately—disappointment. “Look, if I see him...I’ll...he’ll...” He struggled to find the right words to describe the consequences of him and Roger crossing paths. “You just don’t understand, Freddie. Chrissie and I, our lives are over if we’re not together.”</p><p>“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Freddie yelled, forgetting where he was. Brian’s hand wasn’t quick enough to clasp over the dark-haired man’s mouth and achieved nothing but a wet, slobbered palm.</p><p>The professor groaned in disgust and dried his hand on his jacket, glaring at Freddie as he answered tersely, “<em>It means</em> that I need her and she needs me. We have jobs to do, a daughter to raise, and certain expectations to meet. We can’t let anyone get in the way of that—<em>anyone</em>.”</p><p>Roger’s friend folded his arms over his chest. “So you’re telling me that you’re not going to see him when he comes back? Not even once?”</p><p>“I can’t,” Brian asserted timidly. “I have a family now, and Roger knows that. I gave him his chance, and he made his decision. This is what he wanted, and that might not be what I wanted or what you want, but it’s just how it is.” With that, the professor stood up and placed a hand on the dark-haired man’s shoulder. “Thanks for coming, Fred.” He gave him a slight shake and flashed him a small grin. “It was nice seeing you again.”</p><p>He’d only taken one step away from the table when Freddie rocketed out of his seat and snatched the professor’s, turning him back around and revealing, “He’s staying at my place, you know, if you ever want to swing by. Plus, he’s going to work with me at the stall again soon. I’m sure he’d love it if you stopped in.”</p><p>Brian slid his hand out of Freddie’s, slowly nodding his head. “Good to know.”</p><p>“He misses you!” he called out, his voice soaked in desperation as the professor crossed the room—trying his best to avoid the strange looks he was receiving but in turn noticing each and every one, “And I know you miss him too! You can’t avoid each other forever!”</p><p>*****</p><p>Stewart’s nap on the plane gave him an energy that Roger couldn’t compete with upon their late-night arrival in London, the taller of the two dragging the shorter through the bustling airport in search of their respective friends. With their hands intertwined—like lovers looking for a place of privacy—and their bags rolling noisily behind them, the pair expertly wove their way through the sea of unfamiliar faces. In fact, they were so caught up in their own endeavor that they nearly passed by the one familiar face standing out in the crowd.</p><p>“Roger!” Freddie squealed, his distinct voice sounding over the buzz of conversations and loudspeaker announcements. He and Stewart stopped dead in their tracks, turning their heads this way and that until the blonde spotted the dark-haired man, standing atop one of the many benches teeming with fussy families and solo flyers waiting for their flight to be announced. Freddie jumped down from his post and pushed his way to Roger, practically attacking the blonde as he lunged forward and embraced him like he hadn’t seen him in ages.</p><p>Roger chuckled at his friend’s eagerness but was quick to return the gesture, glad to see him again as well. Stewart—feeling somewhat forgotten—cleared his throat, breaking up the happy reunion and reminding the blonde that he and Freddie hadn’t been properly introduced. “Sorry,” he apologized, gesturing between the two strangers, “Stewart, this is Freddie, the one I told you I’d be staying with. And Freddie, this is Stewart, the guy I’m starting a band with.”</p><p>“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Freddie,” Stewart remarked, a friendly grin appearing on his face as he extended his hand out. “I’ve heard only good things about you.”</p><p>“And <em>I’ve</em> heard <em>you’re</em> a pretty good shag,” the dark-haired man replied slyly, placing his hand in the taller blonde’s palm and holding tight. “Are you available anytime soon? I’d love to see it for myself.”</p><p>“Fred!” Roger chastised under his breath as Stewart quickly slipped his hand out of Freddie’s deathlike grasp and held it protectively to his beating chest.</p><p>“What? I thought I’d ask!”</p><p>The blonde brought an embarrassed hand up to his forehead and hung his head in shame, an awkward silence falling over the three—disrupted by a fourth person joining the group. As Roger dropped his hand to the side and lifted his gaze up from the ground, his eyes widened at the uncanny resemblance the stranger had to him. With short blonde hair and blue eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, he could’ve been mistaken for his doppelganger.</p><p>To ease his growing suspicions, though, Stewart exclaimed, “Sting, hey!”</p><p>“Ready to go?” he asked flatly, ripping the eyewear off his face and surveying the two men staring at him like a deer in headlights. “Who are these two?” he wondered aloud, slipping his sunglasses into the breast pocket of his jacket.</p><p>“Well, this is the guitarist I found,” Stewart explained, pointing at Roger who raised an anxious hand that ended up running through his hair and landing on the back of his neck. “And that’s his friend who wants to sleep with me.”</p><p>“Only if you want to, darling,” Freddie purred, folding his arms over his chest and flashing the drummer a dazzling smile.</p><p>“How polite,” Sting muttered indifferently, grabbing Stewart by the arm. “Come on, let’s go. I’ve got a baby in the car.”</p><p>“O-Okay, buddy,” the taller of the two blondes stammered as the tables turned and he became the one getting dragged through the airport. Before he got too far, Stewart looked back at Roger and called out, “Meet me at the address I wrote down for you tomorrow at 8! We’ll jam, all three of us!”</p><p>Roger gave him a thumbs-up before losing him and Sting in the crowd and turning his attention to Freddie. He nodded his head in the direction the other two disappeared and said, “We should go too. I’m sure Mary’s just <em>dying</em> to see me again.”</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry about her,” his friend assured him, linking their arms and leading them to the exit. “She’s still high on the thrill of playing with a baby today.”</p><p>“Of course, she is,” Roger quipped, the corner of his lip pricking upward into a smirk.</p><p>“Hey, at least it makes her tolerable,” Freddie responded, nudging him in the arm and returning the grin. The blonde would never admit it, but he missed Mary and her quirks. He missed Freddie too, and although he had found similar characters to fill in the holes carved out by his move to America, they couldn’t even begin to compare to what he’d left behind in London—or rather, <em>who </em>he’d left behind in London.</p><p>The pair managed to find their way out of the terminal, Freddie guiding them to the car parked right outside. Mary sat in the driver’s seat, thumbing through a magazine to pass the time. She jumped with a start when Roger rattled his knuckles against the frosted window to her right, Freddie’s fiancé glaring at him as he motioned for her to roll down the partition. Despite the sour look on her face, she turned the hand crank and allowed the frigid, evening air to invade the warm vehicle so they could talk.</p><p>“Hi, Mary,” Roger greeted, resting his arm atop the car and tilting his head at an uncomfortable angle to peer inside at the driver.</p><p>“Don’t think I’m doing this because I’ve suddenly had a change of heart about you,” she bit, snapping the publication in her hands. “Because I haven’t.”</p><p>The blonde chuckled. “I’d be worried if you did.”</p><p>“Alright, enough bickering, you two,” Freddie interjected from the other side of the vehicle, leaning against the front passenger door. “It’s late and we’re missing <em>Coronation Street</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah, Roger, we’re missing <em>Coronation Street</em>,” Mary sneered, the corners of her mouth turning upward into a snide grin as she set the magazine down beside her and wrapped her hands around the steering wheel.</p><p>The blonde glanced over the top of the car at his friend, the two of them rolling their eyes before slipping into the vehicle and slamming the doors behind them. They hadn’t even strapped the seat belts over their chests when Mary pulled away from the curb, speeding off into the night. The entire ride home was tense, Freddie frequently glancing back at Roger as though he wanted to say something but never followed through. It wasn’t until they’d arrived at the house and the three separated—Mary escaping upstairs and Roger and Freddie slinking into the living room—that he finally spoke up.</p><p>“I tried everything, Roger,” the dark-haired man blurted out after sitting down in the armchair, the blonde exhaustedly dropping his bag onto the couch and plopping down beside it. “But your boy wouldn’t budge.”</p><p>“What are you talking about?” he asked.</p><p>Instead of answering Roger’s question, Freddie sat forward—resting his elbows atop his thighs and clasping his hands out in front of him—and wondered, “Why didn’t you tell him you were coming back?” He didn’t even need to say his name to drain all the color from the blonde’s face. “I just don’t get it. Don’t you—” His voice trailed off as Roger shot up from the couch and rushed over to the television, switching it on and messing with the dials to find the channel <em>Coronation Street </em>was playing on. Freddie sighed and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and grumbling, “It’s not on anymore, Roger. We missed it.”</p><p>The blonde pounded a fist into the top of the set and stood back up, throwing a bashful look in his friend’s direction and admitting, “I want to see him, Freddie. I do. I just...I want to see him when I’m ready, and I’m almost there, I just—"</p><p>“Here you go, blondie,” Mary’s voice cut into the private confession, Roger flinching when a sleeping bag ricocheted off his arm and fell to the floor. “It’s for mountain climbing, so I don’t want to hear any complaints about you being cold when you’re out sleeping in the yard.”</p><p>Freddie scoffed. “He’s not sleeping in the yard, Mary.”</p><p>“Well he’s certainly not sleeping anywhere in here,” she snapped, glaring at the blonde before storming back upstairs. Roger heaved a frustrated sigh and snatched the sleeping bag up off the ground, holding it close to his chest and returning his attention to his friend.</p><p>“You don’t have to sleep in the yard, Rog,” Freddie reassured him in a whisper.</p><p>“Oh, yes he does!” his fiancé shouted from the second floor, startling both men.</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” the blonde muttered under his breath, adjusting his hold on the thinly insulated bag and tipping his head back to look up at the ceiling.</p><p>Freddie shook his head and rose up out of the armchair, shortening the distance between him and Roger and grabbing the blonde’s upper arms in demand of his attention. “Look, Roger, Brian needs you just as much as you need him. Trust me. He’ll be at the school tomorrow; you should go see him. Say hi, see what happens.” A sly smile crawled onto his face—his bottom lip tucked under his front teeth.</p><p>“Fred...”</p><p>“Trust me!” he cried, giving his friend a slight shake. “He told me himself that he wants to see you, and you just said that you want to see him too. So, come on. This is your chance. What have you got to lose?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roger sat outside on the stoop leading into his friend’s backyard, the sleeping bag Mary had thrown at him draped unconventionally over his shoulders and a cigarette pinched lazily between his ice-cold fingers. The blonde brought the burning white stick to his lips and inhaled deeply, holding in the calming breath of nicotine as he tilted his head back and stared up at the dark, midnight sky hanging above, twinkling with a thousand little stars—the same stars that Brian could be looking at.</p><p>He wondered what the professor was up to; if he would still be up at this hour. Roger tried to forget about it, but he couldn’t get Freddie’s words out of his head. <em>Brian needs you just as much as you need him . . . He told me himself that he wants to see you</em>. If that was the case, had he also spent countless nights playing the few passionate moments they shared over and over again in his head? Had he fantasized about what it would be like if Roger never left for America and stayed with him, or thought about all the ways he could ditch his life and reunite with the one person who made him feel like no other person had made him feel before?</p><p>The mystery haunted Roger, his optimism pulling him in one direction and reality pulling him in another. Say Brian did do all those things. It wouldn’t change the fact that Roger went back to Tim the morning that followed that fateful night. He thought he was doing the right thing, but after a year away from London and the professor, he questioned if leaving him really <em>was </em>the right thing to do. If it was, he wouldn’t have wanted to come back so badly; he would’ve forgotten about Brian and moved on, but he didn’t.</p><p>He was right back where he started, with a new gig and a fresh start. The only difference between now and then was that there was no one to stop him; no one to tell him that what he was doing was a waste of everybody’s time and that he should stick with what he knows best.</p><p>The blonde smirked at this realization, the smoke he’d been holding in slipping past his parted lips and into the cold air whose temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute. Listening to the symphony the distant chirps of crickets and birds created, Roger smashed the cigarette into the cement step he was perched on and tugged at the ends of the sleeping bag, bringing them closer to his chest.</p><p>He knew he didn’t really have to stay outside; that if Mary was to wake up and find him on her couch, she wouldn’t do anything other than roll her eyes and complain to Freddie about it later, or maybe she would throw a newspaper at him or roll him onto the floor. Regardless, there was something about the clear night sky that captivated Roger and made his exile tolerable. He missed this kind of view in New York City—the City That Never Sleeps too bright for the stars to be seen. In London, though, they were as bright as ever.</p><p>Their iridescence seemed unchanged by the professor who sat wide awake in bed, his back flush with the headboard and his hands clasped together in his lap. He glanced down at the figure curled up by his side, facing away from him. He felt like he was in bed with a stranger, despite that stranger being his wife.</p><p>Nothing on the outside seemed different—she looked the same, sounded the same, even smelled the same, yet Brian struggled to recognize her. He wondered if she felt the same way about him, because he sure did. The man staring back at him when he looked in the mirror appeared the same, but deep down, he felt like a completely different person. The man he was a year ago was not the man he was now, and it wasn’t just because he’d gotten married, fathered a child, and accepted more responsibility at the university. It was something else, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on—not because it was impossible, but because he was afraid to.</p><p>Unable to fall asleep, Brian threw the blankets off himself—the sheets folding over on Chrissie—and slipped out of the room. He was mindful to keep his steps light and to close the door behind him with care, risking only a soft click as it was enveloped by the threshold. With a small, triumphant grin, the professor made his way down the hall and into the nursery, where his daughter stood in her crib with teary eyes—waiting for her father to come and comfort her.</p><p>Brian smirked and, before Liz could utter a cry, lifted her up and held her close, swiping away the tears that trickled down her chubby cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He kissed her on the top of the head and whispered, “I missed you.” Silence permeated the air as the infant dropped her jaw and let out a quiet yawn, falling into her father’s chest. The professor placed another kiss on the top of her head and wandered over to the frosted window, a slight bounce in his step as he began to rock the baby girl back to sleep.</p><p>After a few awkward attempts of craning his neck to get a better view of the night sky outside, Brian surrendered to the rocking chair and began analyzing the crazy day he had, trying to make sense of it all. The rude awakening his parents had bestowed him with first thing in the morning, the strange way Chrissie behaved at the church, the peculiar involvement Freddie possessed in trying to reunite him and his friend, and the normalcy that surrounded the headmistress’s return to his home, he didn’t know what to make of it. It all seemed to happen too quickly, too easily. Just a week ago, Brian’s world had crumbled to pieces, and now it was seamlessly put back together. The only thing that jeopardized it was the nagging desire the professor couldn’t shake about seeing the blonde again.</p><p>“Your daddy’s in big trouble, Liz,” he confessed, glancing down at the drowsy girl and brushing her hair back before explaining, “An old friend of his is back in town, and he really wants to see him, but Mommy won’t like it if he does because Daddy’s friend and Mommy don’t get along very well. Something happened before you were born that made them not like each other very much, and Daddy somehow found himself right in the middle of it all.”</p><p>The baby girl squirmed in her father’s arms, trying to find a more comfortable position to sleep in. Brian adjusted his hold on her and felt her cling warmly to him, a bit of dribble rolling down her squished cheek and pooling on his bare shoulder. The father didn’t seem to mind as he continued rocking back and forth, sorting through his jumbled thoughts.</p><p>“I’ve told you so many stories about him that I can’t remember which ones I haven’t told you,” he murmured, the corner of his lip twitching upward into a smirk as he stared at the ceiling—a square of light cast upon the smooth surface from the street light outside. “He just meant so much to me, Liz, and...and if things were different, we...” His voice trailed off as the reality of the situation hit him, the rest of his sentence breaking his heart.</p><p>He wanted to say, “we could’ve been so happy.” However, he knew if those words slipped past his lips, he’d be lying, because he <em>was </em>happy—that is, before secrets were revealed and relationships destroyed.</p><p>It’s true that the first few months after Roger’s departure were difficult for the professor, but once Liz was born, everything changed. Brian didn’t have time to dwell on the impact the music instructor’s absence had on him, too preoccupied with raising his daughter—feeding her, changing her, rocking her to sleep. The stories about the blonde came about naturally, and most of the time they were accounts of memories Brian had of him, <em>good </em>memories. In a sense, those recollections helped the professor move on with his life—despite the occasional dream he had.</p><p>Now that Roger was back, though, it seemed like all his progress was in danger of being reduced to wasted time. Despite his adamancy with Freddie about not seeing the blonde ever again, part of him wanted to anyway. He couldn’t deny the lure of the idea of Roger’s lips against his, or the skillful way the blonde unraveled him with one touch—something Chrissie was incapable of. It was pure torture.</p><p>Brian sniffled and swiped at the single tear that fell from his eye, his daughter’s soft breaths reminding him of where he was and who he was. His lips quivered as he rested his cheek against her head and closed his eyes, wishing she could tell him what to do. Dealing with this never-ending problem spun him in circles, ending him up right back where he started—confused, conflicted, and convinced there was no way out of this for him...at least not a way that wouldn’t hurt others in the process.</p><p>“Brian?” a hushed voice sounded, pulling the professor out from his stupor. He slowly lifted his head and saw Chrissie’s silhouette in the doorway of the nursery—arms crossed, head resting against the threshold. “What are you doing out of bed?”</p><p>“She was crying,” he whispered, his lie going undetected by the exhausted headmistress. “I was just trying to calm her down; get her back to sleep.”</p><p>Chrissie let out a yawn and dropped her hands to the side, muttering, “Well, come back once you do. You need sleep too.” With that, she turned on her heel and trudged back to their bedroom, followed shortly after by her husband who—after laying their daughter back in her crib—slipped beneath the covers and turned away from her, clinging to his pillow and staring at the wall across from him with glistening eyes.</p><p>Brian still didn’t know what to do, but lucky for him, when the sun came up and he and Chrissie arrived at the university, hand in hand, that decision would no longer be so difficult. After all, the heart wants what the heart wants.</p><p>*****</p><p>Sleep didn’t come easily for either Brian or Roger that night, yet both were up and about by sunrise. While the former succumbed to the daunting task of cleaning himself up—making himself presentable—the latter debated on whether he should see the professor again, and how. He’d burned all the bridges he’d built in London when he left for America, and that river dividing them seemed impossible to cross now. Freddie’s encouragement wasn’t enough to bring them back together; he needed transportation, a car, and there was only one person at his disposal who had one—Mary.</p><p>He had to find a way to coerce her into helping him, and it did him no favors that the two of them despised one another. He spent most of that frigid morning thinking of ways to change that, and just before the sun began to peek over the horizon, right after he took a final drag from his second cigarette, the answer became crystal clear to him—he’d make her breakfast. Not only would the kind, unexpected gesture distract Mary from the fact he’d willfully gone against her wishes and sneaked inside, but she would be so astonished that, in her state of awe, when he’d ask her for a ride, she’d have no other choice but to say yes. The only issue was that his cooking skills were quite limited; he wasn’t even sure how to boil an egg.</p><p>Nevertheless, when Mary and Freddie came downstairs, they were surprised to find the blonde pouring each of them a cup of coffee—the mugs part of an elaborately mediocre spread that covered their kitchen table. Plates of toast, bacon, and sausage were set at opposite seats, along with two bowls of dry cereal and a milk carton placed in the center of the table for use when they were ready. The couple froze in the doorway, struggling to believe that the blonde standing before them was the same blonde they’d picked up from the airport the night before.</p><p>“My god, Roger,” Freddie muttered under his breath, drawn to the table as though he were in a trance and slipping into one of the two seats. “What’s all this for?”</p><p>“What? A guy can’t make his friend and his fiancé breakfast?” Roger replied teasingly, an amused smirk pricking at the corner of his lip while he topped off the cup of coffee he’d been attending to.</p><p>“He’s probably poisoned it,” Mary grumbled, maintaining her grudge towards the blonde despite how early it was. She made her way over and sat down in the seat Roger pulled out for her—cautious in taking it, afraid the blonde was going to pull it out from underneath her.</p><p>Needless to say, he didn’t. Instead, he politely pushed her in and forced a grin upon his face, leaning in close to whisper in her ear, “Only yours, babe.” With a quick, belittling peck to her reddened cheek, Roger waltzed over to the counter and picked up the plate he made for himself. Mary widened her eyes at Freddie, but the dark-haired man ignored her wordless plea to do something about his friend—too engrossed by the food on his plate to hear her.</p><p>“Roger, darling, I didn’t know you could cook,” he commented distractedly, lifting the piece of toast atop the stack of three to reveal its burnt bottom.</p><p>“I didn’t know I could either,” the blonde retorted, joining the couple at the table and taking a bite into the bacon that was so crisp it shattered—the rock-hard pieces falling onto his plate and into his lap. “Fuck me,” he groaned, tossing the remaining scrap he managed to hold onto with the others and crossing his arms over his chest.</p><p>Mary mirrored the blonde’s stance and narrowed her eyes, asking bluntly, “What’s your angle, Roger?” He met her gaze, those innocent baby blues having no effect on her whatsoever. “What’s this breakfast really for?”</p><p>The blonde’s glance flickered over to his best friend, finding no such luck in gaining his support as he continued to prod the charred sausage links like they were a specimen in a lab. Roger heaved a sigh and looked back at Mary, hanging his head shortly after in avoidance of her poignant, unrelenting glare as he admitted, “I need you to give me a ride.”</p><p>A disbelieving laugh slipped past her lips. “I hope you’re joking.”</p><p>“Mary, please,” he begged, sitting forward and clasping his hands together on the table—daring to bring his eyes to hers once more. “I need to see someone.”</p><p>Mary scoffed at the desperation dripping from his voice. “Who?”</p><p>Roger’s cheeks grew warm just thinking about his reunion with Brian. “A friend,” he answered timidly, snapping Freddie out of the curiosity-driven daze he’d fallen into.</p><p>He gasped and wrapped his hand around Roger’s thigh. “You’re not talking about who I think you’re talking about, are you?”</p><p>“No, he’s not, because he hasn’t got any friends to visit except you,” Mary sneered, Roger rolling his eyes in annoyance. It absolutely amazed him how she continued to resent him so passionately. They’d known each other for years, and Roger thought that by now the hatred would’ve died down a bit, yet it remained just as strong as it was when it first began. He couldn’t remember what he did to make her act so cold, colder than the winter nights in England, but it was too late in the game for him to ask her, so he just dealt with it—especially if it meant seeing <em>him </em>again.</p><p>Freddie smirked. “No, he’s got someone else, but I wouldn’t say he’s his friend. He’s much more than that, isn’t he?”</p><p>His fiancé’s eyes doubled in size as she pieced the growing puzzle together. “Hold up, are you talking about—” Her voice went silent, her thoughts refusing to turn themselves into words. However, she didn’t need to say anything for the two men to know which name was about to roll off her tongue. They didn’t need to say anything either to validate her beliefs. “No, no. No fucking way.” Mary shot up from her chair, shaking the whole table in the process. “I’m not letting you ruin my new friend’s life again. I won’t let it happen!” In forbiddance of any room for argument, she stormed off—her heavy footsteps pounding against the stairs as she retreated to hers and Freddie’s bedroom.</p><p>Roger’s eyebrows furrowed together and shifted his attention to Freddie, looking for answers. “New friend?”</p><p>“She’s talking about Chrissie,” Freddie explained with a nonchalance that greatly contrasted the tense situation. He grabbed the carton of milk and popped it open, tipping it over and adding the milk to the bowl of cereal—perhaps the only edible option on the table. “Remember? I told you. They’re friends now; she told her everything.”</p><p>The blonde groaned and covered his face with his hands. He’d honestly forgotten about that—his spontaneous, drunken escapade following the conversation they shared wiping his memory clean.</p><p>“Don’t worry, though, darling,” Freddie assured him, slamming the carton back down in the center of the table and picking up his spoon—tapping it against Roger’s fingers and getting the blonde to reveal his frowning face. “I’ll take you to him.”</p><p>“How?” Roger snapped. “You don’t drive, Freddie.”</p><p>“Who said anything about <em>me</em> driving?”</p><p>*****</p><p>“Mary’s going to kill us, you know,” Roger muttered as he and Freddie slipped out of the vehicle parked across the street from Imperial College’s main entrance, the blonde pocketing the stolen keys.</p><p>“Only if she finds out,” the dark-haired man replied slyly, a smirk crawling onto his face as he reminisced about all the times he’d visited the university in the last year without his fiancé knowing. Roger heaved an aggravated sigh and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, approaching the school with his friend right beside him.</p><p>As they stepped over the threshold together, a wave of emotions washed over the blonde. Standing in the entryway, staring at the unfamiliar faces whipping past him, he felt like an outsider, so far detached from the hustle and bustle he found himself a part of last winter. It was only when his attention was caught by the infamous, troublemaking group of girls and their token shy guy that he started to feel at home again.</p><p>“John,” the blonde murmured, happy to see the bugger. He took a step forward—wanting to catch up with him—when Freddie stuck his hand out in front of him, selfishly stealing Roger’s attention from his former music student.</p><p>“Hey now, before you go off, I need you to promise me something,” he said, an uncharacteristic seriousness to his tone that knitted the blonde’s brows. “Promise me you won’t fuck this up.”</p><p>Roger scoffed. “What makes you think—”</p><p>“Because I know you, Roger,” Freddie interrupted him, moving his hand from the blonde’s chest to his shoulder and using the other to point at the opposite end of the hall, “and I know that you’re not going to make it halfway down this hallway before you start doubting yourself, but remember what I told you. He wants to see you, and you want to see him. Don’t forget that, alright?” With a playful tap on Roger’s nose and a wink, Freddie spun around and disappeared into the sea of strangers that were hurrying to get to class—the clock striking ten.</p><p>Within minutes, the corridors were completely deserted, and the blonde was left all alone. Taking a deep breath, he pressed forward, traveling through the hallways that didn’t feel as foreign to him as he imagined they would. Freddie was right about the blonde second-guessing his purpose there, but it didn’t happen halfway down the hall. It happened right outside the professor’s classroom.</p><p>The door was closed, and all the lights had been turned off except those shining above the chalkboards and the desk still situated at the front of the room. Sitting at that desk was none other than Brian, his one hand woven into his unruly mop of curls and the other wrapped around a red pen. The midterms his students had taken the Friday before were stacked in front of him but ignored, overshadowed by the tattered notebook splattered with more scribbles. His back was hunched, a pair of cheap readers rested on the tip of his nose, and his cheeks were smooth—not to mention that the alcohol on his breath had substantially subsided. Of course, Roger had no way of knowing that the professor appeared vastly different less than twenty-four hours ago. All he knew was what Freddie had told him. <em>He wants to see you, and you want to see him.</em></p><p>Roger’s hand hovered over the door handle, tempted to grab it and push the door in with reckless abandon. He could see himself rushing over to the desk, the professor looking up from his papers and through the magnified lenses just in time to capture the blonde’s incoming lips. Brian’s hands would instinctively fall onto Roger’s hips and guide him down into his lap—all without breaking the kiss—where they would say everything they’d been meaning to say without actually speaking. However, before Roger could even fathom turning that fantasy into a reality, a familiar voice hit his ear.</p><p>“Oi, shouldn’t you be getting to class?”</p><p>The blonde’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, seeing that it belonged to none other than Sting—the band member he’d only had the pleasure of meeting the night before, but only for a minute. The bassist took a big bite out of the apple he’d been eating and waited for Roger’s response, raising his eyebrows when the blonde gawked at him. “Well?”</p><p>“I-I’m not a student, Sting,” Roger stammered.</p><p>“Then how come you know my name?”</p><p>The blonde anxiously chuckled, unsure of whether the bassist was just joshing around or if he truly didn’t recognize him. Roger didn’t want to believe that it could be the latter, because before, he would leave such a lasting impression on people with the way he carried himself that they couldn’t get him out of their heads for weeks. Now, though, it seemed like he’d lost his charm, and he began to wonder if all the changes he was making were for the worse instead of for the better. His growing concern showed in his face.</p><p>“Hey,” Sting snapped the fingers of his free hand in Roger’s direction, ripping the blonde out of the daze he’d put himself into. “Answer my question, blondie.”</p><p>The former music instructor shook his head, scrambling to find the words he wanted to say. “Um, b-because we met last night? I’m the new guitarist for your band?”</p><p>“Oh, are you now?” His lookalike tossed the unfinished apple across the hall and sauntered towards him, the piece of fruit bouncing off the wall and into the garbage bin as he eliminated what little distance separated them. Roger swallowed the nervous lump that formed in his throat, intimidated by the bassist’s narrowed gaze that made him feel inferior despite them being the same height.</p><p>A bead of sweat broke out on the blonde’s forehead, causing the corners of Sting’s lip to perk up into a smug grin. He pinched Roger’s cheek—the demeaning gesture bringing forth a handful of painful memories for the blonde—and quipped, “I knew you looked familiar.” He lowered the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose to get a better look at the blonde, humming in agreement of his own theory and readjusting his glasses. “What are you doing here?” he inquired, the cold shoulder he’d initially given him suddenly warming up.</p><p>“W-What are <em>you </em>doing here?” he managed to choke out, trying his best to suppress the nightmares that flashed before him.</p><p>Sting laughed and folded his arms over his chest. “I asked you first.”</p><p>The blonde’s cheeks grew red, his gaze flickering into the classroom where Brian had thrown his pen to the side and buried his face in his paperwork. Roger pressed his lips together and slowly returned his attention to Sting, stuttering, “I-I just wanted to make sure that...that we’re still on for tonight.”</p><p>“Of course. I can’t let you in the band if you’re a shit guitarist. We’ve got standards, you know.” Roger nodded his head in understanding, hoping that the bassist would be satisfied enough with his answer. However, his interrogation continued with him asking out of curiosity, “Hey, how did you know to find me here anyways?”</p><p>“Erm,” Roger brought a hand to the back of his neck and rubbed it uncomfortably, “I...uh...” Then it clicked. “Stewart told me you’d be here.” <em>He hadn’t.</em> “Yeah, I...I called him this morning.” <em>He didn’t.</em> “‘Said you were here—” He quickly glanced at the bassist’s outfit—a white button down, black suit jacket, black and white diagonally striped tie, dark wash jeans, and dirty, worn out, white sneakers. “—teaching.”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s only temporary,” Sting explained, tugging at the ends of his sleeves. “You know, until the band takes off.” He winked at the blonde before pushing his one sleeve back and looking at the watch strapped around his wrist. “Well, looks like I’m late for my class,” he sighed, meeting Roger’s nervous gaze and pointing an index finger at him. “Eight o’clock tonight?”</p><p>“Eight o’clock tonight,” the blonde repeated, a crooked grin appearing on his face.</p><p>Sting smirked and patted him on the arm with a smirk. “See you then, mate.” With that, he wandered off, Roger glancing over his shoulder and watching as the bassist disappeared down the hallway and around the corner. Once he was out of sight and the echo of his steps had faded into silence, the blonde took a deep breath and turned towards the classroom—the professor now sitting with his head dropped back and his hands covering his face.</p><p><em>He wants to see you, and you want to see him, </em>he reminded himself, grabbing the door handle and pushing down. The soft click of the door startled the professor, lifting his hands from his face and turning his head to see the blonde standing in his doorway. His eyes widened in disbelief; he almost didn’t believe it.</p><p>“Roger?” Brian murmured, shooting up out his chair.</p><p>The blonde bit his lip to mask his growing smile and leaned against the threshold, his hands tucked into his pockets. “Hey.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Finally, what you've all been waiting for! Sorry it took me so long to post. It's crazy how much I struggled to write this chapter, but hopefully the rest will come easier! Fingers crossed. Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you like it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Staring at Roger in awe, Brian slid the glasses off his face and set them down on the desk, blurting out the first thing that came to his mind. “Y-You cut your hair.”</p><p>The blonde chuckled and ran a hand through the shorter, classically disheveled locks. “I did.”</p><p>“And...and you’re really here.” The professor took a cautious step in Roger’s direction, worried that if he stepped too far, the blonde would vanish and he’d realize that this was all just some dream induced by his insomnia; that all along he’d been asleep at his desk, drool puddling on the exams he was supposed to grade and the clock ticking dangerously close to the time his first class would begin—students filing in at the last minute.</p><p>“I really am.”</p><p>He shook his head in disbelief. “Why?”</p><p>“I heard you wanted to see me,” the blonde answered, a blush rising in his cheeks as he dared to enter the room, “and I kind of wanted to see you too.”</p><p>Brian could see it now, darting forward not to embrace Roger like he’d been wanting to for months, but to slam the door shut behind him. He’d keep his back to the startled blonde—hands and forehead pressed against the wooden surface with eyes closed and breaths shaky. Roger would try to speak up in an attempt to alleviate the tension that filled the air, but before he could get a single word out, the professor would turn around, grab him by the shirt, and shove him into the wall next to the door.</p><p>Looking him dead in the eyes—their chests rising and falling in sync—his lusty gaze would drift downward to the blonde’s parted lips, and temptation would coerce him into meeting them with his own. He would swallow the lump that formed in his throat and try his best to suppress his growing desire, but he knew that, no matter how much he reminded himself of Liz and Chrissie and the promise he made to both of them, he was helpless under Roger’s spell. The only way to stay above it was to keep the distance between them, and so, with the blonde’s real step forward, the professor took a real step back.</p><p>“What about Tim?” Brian wondered.</p><p>Roger shrugged his shoulders, continuing his slow, calculated stride into the classroom—the professor mirroring his actions. “He’s not here.”</p><p>Brian bumped into his desk, falling into its edge and watching the distance between him and the former music instructor grow smaller and smaller. His voice got lost in his throat as the blonde inserted himself between his open legs, running his hands up his thighs, over his chest, and behind his neck. A shiver traveled down Brian’s spine as Roger leaned in, and just before their lips could touch and send the two of them into a bliss they’d long been deprived of, the professor blurted out, “But Chrissie is.”</p><p>The blonde instantly pulled back, looking into Brian’s guilty eyes that shifted down to his lap, where his hands sat clasped together and his thumbs brushed over one another in a nervous circle. “I’m sorry,” he muttered in shame.</p><p>“No, I-I’m sorry,” Roger stammered, “I just thought that—” His voice trailed off as he reluctantly turned away from the professor and sat down at one of the desks in the front of the classroom—his leg shaking anxiously.</p><p>“—that I’d be happy to see you?” Brian attempted to complete the blonde’s sentence, keeping his head low and his attention locked on his feet.</p><p>The blonde scoffed and crossed his arms. “Well, yeah. I mean, we haven’t seen each other in over a year.”</p><p>With the way Freddie had talked about the professor and his wish to see him again, the blonde wasn’t prepared for this kind of reaction, believing that the second they laid eyes on each other, they wouldn’t be able to keep themselves apart. Yet there they were, so close to putting an end to their yearlong misery, only to be stopped before it even began.</p><p>Roger didn’t expect to be rejected. In fact, rejections came so far and few for him—gliding through life on his good looks and charming personality—<em>he </em>was unsure of how to react. He figured by now they’d be stumbling into the shadows, tripping over each other’s feet and tugging at one another’s clothes as they raced against the clock to fit an entire year apart into however long they had before the bell rang. He didn’t think they’d be sitting across the room from each other in awkward silence, feeling as though they were in the company of strangers.</p><p>“Well, a lot’s happened since then,” the professor finally replied, his eyes flickering over to where the blonde sat, “and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not the same guy I was a year ago.”</p><p>“Clearly,” Roger chuckled under his breath.</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brian peeled away from his desk and approached the blonde, towering over him and witnessing the smug expression that slathered his face. If someone were to walk by at that moment, they could easily mistake the situation for a teacher reprimanding his student for misbehaving in class.</p><p>Roger smirked, slamming his hands down on the desktop and lifting himself up so that he was eye level with the professor. “It means that the guy I left behind a year ago told me that the distance between us wouldn’t change the love he had for me, but <em>clearly</em>, so much has happened that he forgot about that.” With lips drawn into a straight line and eyes narrowed, he brushed past Brian and headed for the door, embarrassed that he’d listened to his friend—let alone, believed him—when he said that the professor wanted to see him.</p><p>However, just before he could cross the threshold, Brian called out, “Roger, wait!” The blonde turned his head over his shoulder and watched as the professor began to live out his fantasy by jogging past him and pulling the classroom door shut, the fantasy changing when he turned to face the aggravated blonde—regret wavering in his blue eyes—and argued calmly, “That’s not true, what you said. I didn’t forget.”</p><p>He kept quiet, cocking his head to the side and folding his arms over his chest.</p><p>“Roger, trust me,” Brian pleaded, stepping forward and daring to grab hold of his upper arms, giving him a slight shake. “I meant every word I said that day, and I couldn’t forget even if I tried.” The professor sighed and ran his hands down his arms, taking the blonde’s hands in his and noticing the scar peeking out from underneath the blonde’s jacket. He raised an eyebrow and rolled the sleeve up, exposing the burn that ran up Roger’s forearm and immediately losing his train of thought. “Oh my god, what happened?”</p><p>“Nothing. Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, masking the injury and explaining, “I just burned myself making breakfast this morning. It’s not a big deal.”</p><p>“Roger, it looks pretty bad—”</p><p>“I’ll be fine, Brian,” he assured him, a sly grin breaking out onto the former music instructor’s face as he removed the space between them and dropped his hands onto the professor’s shoulders. “But what if I told you I’d feel better if you proved to me you didn’t forget?”</p><p>Brian chuckled. “Well then, I guess I’d have no choice.”</p><p>“So, prove it,” Roger insisted.</p><p>The professor hesitantly placed his hands on the blonde’s hips and took in a deep breath, checking the door for any onlookers. When he deemed the coast clear, he returned his attention to Roger and revealed, “Well, I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t think about you every day,” he smirked and tacked on softly, “or that you weren’t always in my dreams.”</p><p>The corner of Roger’s lip pricked upward. “Always?”</p><p>A slight blush crept up in the professor’s cheeks. “Always.”</p><p>“And what are we doing in those dreams?” He bit his lip and twisted a loose curl around his finger, gazing into the hazel eyes that traveled down to Brian’s feet.</p><p>“That...That’s not important,” he muttered, the pink in his cheeks turning red.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” the blonde groaned, leaning into the professor who tried his hardest to resist the urges building inside of him. “You can’t tell me that you always dream about me and not tell me what—” His voice was stolen by the opening of the classroom door, the two men turning their heads to see Ben standing in the doorway. The student’s eyes widened, pushing Roger and Brian apart—the former turning away from the familiar face while the latter awkwardly adjusted his jacket and cleared his throat.</p><p>“Yes, Ben?” Brian asked, putting forth the best professional persona he could.</p><p>“I-I just wanted to ask if the midterms had been graded,” the young blonde stuttered, his eyes flickering over to the other man in the room for a brief moment. “Perhaps I should come back at another time,” he suggested, “‘Seems like I’ve interrupted something.”</p><p>“No, no, not at all,” the professor assured him, returning to his desk and rifling through the papers in search of the exam with the boy’s name on it. “Just let me...” Roger watched out of the corner of his eye as Brian threw the pair of readers back on and filed through the stack of papers like his life depended on it. “I know it’s in here somewhere...”</p><p>The blonde couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at Ben, wondering if he remembered their brief exchange a year ago, and if he did, was he going to bring it up? He couldn’t; he wouldn’t. <em>He shouldn’t.</em></p><p>Thankfully, before Roger had the chance to find out, Brian gasped and extracted the boy’s exam from the disorganized pile. “Ben Hardy,” he read, ripping the glasses off his face and walking over to the student, test in hand. “Here you go—first one I graded. I told you that you had nothing to worry about.”</p><p>The young blonde smiled at the big red <strong>A+ </strong>Brian had scribbled on there earlier that day. “Thanks, Professor,” he murmured, taking one last look at Roger before holding the midterm close to his chest and walking out of the room. The professor trailed after him, closing the door and falling against as soon as it clicked into place.</p><p>Brian heaved a sigh and caught the blonde pacing back and forth with his head hung low and his hands tucked into his pockets. The professor pushed himself away from the door and crossed the room, interfering with the blonde’s path and lifting his gaze from his feet. It was in that moment that Brian sensed the uneasiness that had washed over his old colleague—an uneasiness he hadn’t seen since their night at the bar, when the man with the heavy Scottish accent, only identified by Freddie as “Reid,” called Roger Liz.</p><p>“Hey,” the professor murmured, his hands finding their way back to the blonde’s arms, “What’s going on?”</p><p>“You know, maybe I should be the one coming back another time,” he rattled off, slipping out of Brian’s hold. “You...You look like you have a lot on your plate right now, and I don’t want to get in the way of that.”</p><p>The curly-haired teacher’s eyebrows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“I...I just feel like I came at a bad time,” he stammered, starting for the door while keeping his back to it. “This was a bad idea. I-I should’ve—”</p><p>“No, no!” Brian cried, leaping forward and reaching out for him in a frantic attempt to keep him from leaving. “I don’t want you to go. You...You just got here, and...and there’s so much for us to catch up on. I mean,” he dropped his hand to his side and muttered, “you never called.”</p><p>Roger frowned. “I wanted to, Brian. Trust me, I did. I just...”</p><p>“You just what?”</p><p>The blonde rubbed the back of his neck and reluctantly confessed, “I just didn’t want to mess things up for you.” Roger’s eyes flickered to meet Brian’s compassionate ones, a wave of guilt washing over him and compelling him to explain, “I mean, that’s all I’ve ever done, and now that you’ve got a family—”</p><p>“Hold on,” the professor cut him short, eliminating the distance between them and looking down into the blonde’s glistening eyes. “What makes you think that all you’ve done is mess things up for me?”</p><p>Roger scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Brian, all I’ve ever done for you since I took that stupid job is—”</p><p>“Shown me what life can be like if you open yourself up to it,” Brian finished for him, the corner of his lips curling upward into a grin as he tucked a piece of hair behind the blonde’s ear. “There’s a whole world out there that I didn’t know about until I met you, Roger. If it wasn’t for you, I...I wouldn’t be where I am today.” Before the blonde could misconstrue his remark, he exclaimed, “And I mean that in the best way! Without you, I...I wouldn’t have gotten the opportunity to teach something I love; something I’m passionate about, and Freddie and I would have never gotten to know each other if you hadn’t introduced us. You turned my life around for the better, Roger, not for the worst. You’ve got to believe me. Please.”</p><p>The professor hadn’t realized it, but during his monologue, his hands had found their way to the blonde’s cheeks, tilting his head back just enough so that he could dip down and meet the parted lips that were inches away from his own. It’d be so easy just to follow his instincts and throw caution to the wind, acting upon the urges he tried to bury for the sake of preserving his reputation and giving in to Roger’s advances.</p><p>It was clear that this was what they both wanted, and all that needed to be done for it to happen was for Brian to lean in and press his lips against Roger’s, letting the latter take control soon thereafter and hoping that there’d be no more interruptions. However, denying the professor the choice to give in to his instincts or continue fighting them, the blonde swooped in and captured the taller man’s lips with his own.</p><p>The passionate kiss brought the pair back to when they shared their first kiss, though this one better mimicked the one that followed. It was almost as if they were their old selves, ignoring the fact that anyone could walk in on them at any moment and instead focusing on the exhilaration that surged through their veins—the year apart and the consequences they’d surely face doing nothing to stop them from losing themselves in one another.</p><p>In the dim classroom, Roger and Brian stumbled over each other’s feet and into the chalkboard, a faint cloud of dust bursting from the dark green surface as the blonde’s back slammed up against it. It didn’t take long for their pants to grow tight and their breaths to become uneven, and before they knew it, Brian was spinning Roger around and pressing him against the chalkboard—his hands, in search of something to grab onto, smearing the instructions left behind from the midterm the week before.</p><p>“I missed you,” the professor whispered as he leaned into the blonde, drawing out a low groan from the back of his throat.</p><p>“I missed you too,” Roger admitted breathlessly, writhing under the light kisses that Brian began to plant along his shoulder blades. The professor’s hands quickly found their way to the blonde’s hips, pulling him in and grinding against him. Roger couldn’t hold back the moan that slipped past his parted lips as Brian began to roll into him, lighting the fire that burned in the blonde’s pants. He dropped a hand and grabbed himself, trying to relieve some of the building pressure, but now it was <em>his</em> turn to be denied the chance to act on impulse—the professor’s hand wrapping around his and stopping him.</p><p>“No, don’t,” Brian smirked, his low voice tickling Roger’s ear. “Let me.” He pulled the blonde’s hand away from his groin and replaced it with his own, copying the movements the two men had become very familiar with over time. Roger instinctively pushed back into the professor, his arms straightening and his nails digging into the chalkboard as he unraveled under Brian’s touch. He bit his lip, feeling himself coming dangerously close.</p><p>The panting blonde’s gaze flickered over to the door, where he saw Tim standing outside—arms crossed, lips pressed tightly together, and his head shaking side to side. Roger knew it was impossible for him to be there, and when his boyfriend disappeared with the blink of his eye, he knew that what he saw wasn’t real, but the fear the sight instilled in him remained and left him with the harsh reminder as to what was waiting for them the moment they walked out of that classroom.</p><p>It was true that Roger had come to England with Stewart to get away from Tim and his games, but just like last time, he felt it his responsibility to stick by the brunette’s side; to be there for him when no one else would. They’d been together for so long and been through so much that it wasn’t a matter of cheating on him—Roger made a career out of it and Tim took it up as a hobby. It was a matter of wanting to stay with the person he was cheating with, and in turn leaving Tim for good, alone, with no one to turn to, just like the blonde’s family had done to him.</p><p>“Brian...Brian, wait,” Roger choked out, the professor starting to fiddle with the button and zipper of his pants.</p><p>“For what?” he asked distractedly, his fingers dancing along Roger’s belt.</p><p>“Stop,” the blonde muttered, shuddering when Brian’s hand slipped past his waistband. “Just stop!”</p><p>The professor jumped back, Roger hanging his head and trying to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, his own struggle for air drowning out Brian’s—the man terrified that he’d gone too far, not only in regards to his relationship with Roger, but also his relationship with Chrissie. How was he supposed to keep this from her and act like it never happened? She knew about them, and the second she caught wind of Roger's return, there was no doubt in the professor’s mind that she would do everything in her power to keep them from reuniting. They made a deal; they had reputations to uphold. She wasn’t going to let the man who tore apart her first marriage tear apart her second one too.</p><p>Before Brian could lose himself in his spiraling thoughts, Roger let out a deep sigh and straightened his posture, turning around to face the professor and announcing, “I-I should probably get going. I came here with Freddie, and he wanted us to meet back up at a certain time. He hates it when—”</p><p>“You stand him up?” Brian guessed, Roger’s lie going undetected as the corner of his lip unconsciously twitched upward. “Yeah, I know.”</p><p>“Oh, do you now?” the blonde teased, earning a blush from the professor that he instantly matched. “Well then, you know better than anyone that I shouldn’t keep him waiting.”</p><p>“No, you really shouldn’t,” he agreed, hanging his head and shoving his hands in his pockets—scuffing the floor with his shoe.</p><p>A small grin appeared on Roger’s face as he started for the door for the second time that day, this time without any resistance. He’d only grabbed the handle when he dared to glance back at the professor who’d sulked over to his desk and took a seat, sorting through all the tests he had yet to grade. It was obvious he was disappointed in the outcome of their moment, and if the blonde was being honest with himself, he was too, but this just wasn’t the place or time for them to reconnect like that.</p><p>“Hey, Brian?” Roger called out.</p><p>The curly-haired teacher hummed in response, his refusal to meet the blonde’s gaze blatant in the way he focused on the papers in front of him. </p><p>Roger’s cheeks grew warm before he suggested, “Let’s finish this another time.”</p><p>Those five words seemed to do the trick, pulling Brian’s attention away from the exams instantly. “Are you sure?” he asked, lowering the old-fashioned readers to the tip of his nose. The blonde nodded his head, biting his lip excitedly. “But what about—”</p><p>“He’s not here,” Roger reminded him, as well as himself. “Besides, I’m going to be in London for a while. We’ll figure something out.” With a mischievous wink, the blonde slipped out into the hallway and closed the door shut behind him, sending chills down Brian’s spine.</p><p>It seemed impossible, but the professor felt just like he did a year ago, and once again, he wasn’t prepared for what was to come.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So...” Freddie teased with a big grin as he and Roger drove down the crowded streets of London—the sun hanging high in the sky and the snow gathered in large heaps along the sidewalks and driveways gleaming so bright it was almost blinding. “How’d it go?”</p><p>“How’d what go?” the blonde replied, pressing his lips together to hide the smile that wanted to appear on his face just thinking about what Freddie was referring to.</p><p>The dark-haired man smacked his friend playfully on the arm. “You know what I’m talking about—Brian. What happened when you saw him?” He gasped and grabbed onto Roger’s jacket, stealing the driver’s attention away from the road. “You did see him, right?”</p><p>“Of course I saw him,” Roger muttered, shaking Freddie off and returning his gaze to the street ahead.</p><p>When the latter realized the former wasn’t going to elaborate on his answer, he took it upon himself to keep the conversation going with an irritated sigh. “And...?”</p><p>“And we talked!” the blonde snapped, his cheeks turning red as he bit his lip—his previous attempt to hold back the grin proving unhelpful. He could feel the dark-haired man’s stare boring into the side of his head, knowing he was anticipating an account of what they talked about. However, Roger could barely remember what they talked about himself. All he could remember was the faint taste of coffee on Brian’s tongue as it explored his mouth, the tight grip the professor had on his hips as he leaned into him from behind, and the ghostlike whisper that tickled his ear like a feather as Brian told him he’d missed him and took control of the situation that was quickly getting out of hand. It was pure bliss.</p><p>Freddie folded his arms over his chest. “‘And we talked,’” he repeated mockingly, his scoff bringing the blonde back to reality. “Are we really going to keep having this conversation like this, where I have to pry every detail out of you? Roger, I’m your best friend and you’re mine. We’re supposed to tell each other everything. So tell me, what did the two of you talk about?”</p><p>Roger shrugged his shoulders. “I-I don’t know, Fred. We didn’t really talk that much.”</p><p>The smile that Freddie started the conversation with returned as the blush in the blonde’s cheeks deepened, the dark-haired man almost shaking in his seat from excitement. “What did you do, then?”</p><p>The car rolled to a stop at a red light. Roger turned his head to finally meet Freddie’s gaze and answered, “More than you and Paul did,” with a smirk and a mocking pinch to his friend’s cheek.</p><p>“Get your bloody hand off of me,” Freddie mumbled, swatting his friend’s hand away from his face and crossing his arms over his chest once more. He dramatically directed his attention out the window, leaving Roger to stare at the back of his head as he explained, “We would’ve done more if <em>someone </em>hadn’t barged in and killed the mood.”</p><p>“The lights were on, and you were still both dressed!” Roger exclaimed in his defense. “You and I both know I didn’t walk in on anything.”</p><p>“Well, you sure acted like you did,” the passenger snapped, earning an amused chuckle from the driver as he began to imitate him. “‘Oh god! My eyes! My precious eyes! Where’s the bleach? <em>Where’s the bleach!?!’”</em></p><p>Roger smirked at the subpar yet dramatic impression and refrained from correcting his friend and reenacting the scene for himself, not because he didn’t want to, but because of the car horns blaring behind him—the traffic light now green.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” he muttered to himself, waving a dismissive hand at the aggravated drivers—the gesture contained inside the vehicle—and propelling the car forward. An awkward silence fell over the pair as they traveled out of the city toward the more suburban areas, Roger stealing quick glances at Freddie as he built up the courage to continue the conversation.</p><p>“You know, you could’ve hung a sock on the door,” he finally blurted out, his lips curling into a teasing grin as his friend glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “That way I could have at least <em>imagined</em> you guys were getting it on.”</p><p>“Oh, fuck off,” Freddie spat, glaring at the blonde—his narrowed gaze enough to send Roger into a bout of laughter. His unreciprocated tittering lasted the entire ride back to Freddie’s and Mary’s place, and as soon as the car pulled into the driveway—before the blonde could shift the vehicle into park—the dark-haired man jumped out. Maintaining his theatrics, he slammed the door shut and stormed up the walkway, an aggravated air about him as he yanked the front door open and disappeared inside.</p><p>Roger shook his head at his friend’s antics and turned off the ignition, stepping out of the vehicle for himself and having his wallet fall out of his jacket pocket. He sighed at the spilled contents and bent down to gather his scattered belongings, grabbing at the bills and coins when he came across a small photograph that he’d almost forgotten about. Plucking it from the mix, he dropped his wallet to hold it with both hands, looking at the picture Brian had sent him when Liz was born. The image wasn’t of Liz, though, it was of her father—standing in front of the bathroom mirror with his camera held up to the wall in a solid black, long-sleeve, button-down shirt with a white floral design embroidered beneath the collar. Although Roger had never seen Brian in the shirt before, it became one of his favorites.</p><p>The blonde’s cheeks grew warm in spite of the cold weather as he tucked the small photograph back into his wallet and gathered the rest of his cash, brushing the snow off his pants and retreating inside. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to take his coat off before Mary came out of the kitchen and shoved the phone into his chest—the cord stretched so far that it was almost straight.</p><p>“It’s for you, blondie,” she grumbled, rolling her eyes and turning away from him before he could question her. His hand quickly replaced hers, his fingers wrapping tightly around the device and bringing it up to his ear—the faint hum emanating from the speaker indicating that there was someone on the other end of the line.</p><p>“H-Hello?” he stammered.</p><p>
  <em>“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?”</em>
</p><p>Roger closed his eyes and brought a hand to his forehead. He should’ve known that his bliss would only be temporary; that something—some<em>one</em>—was lurking in the shadows, waiting to ruin the high he’d been riding ever since he left the university. “Tim, I—”</p><p><em>“Leaving me here without even fucking saying goodbye,” </em>the brunette sneered, ignoring Roger’s attempt at explaining himself. <em>“You didn’t even tell that bar you work at that you were leaving. They thought you’d gotten killed or kidnapped, or maybe ran away. ‘Guess they weren’t too far off on that last one, huh?”</em> The blonde could tell by his voice that he’d had a few drinks, and that this conversation wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.</p><p>He ran his hand through his hair and let it fall to his side before replying, “I didn’t run away, Tim. I told you where I was going.”</p><p><em>“Yeah, you always do, Roger, but you never tell me what trouble you’re going to get yourself into,” </em>Tim interrupted him bitterly. <em>“You get all these great opportunities with all these great people, and you...you jump at them without knowing exactly what you’re signing up for because...because you don’t care what you’re signing up for, so as long as it gets you away from me, right?” </em></p><p>The blonde’s guilty gaze flickered up to meet the two pairs of eyes watching him—the faces they belonged to hiding behind the threshold separating the living room and the foyer. Freddie gasped and pulled him and Mary out of sight, the couple slamming up against the wall in the living room and eyeing each other nervously, worried they’d been caught even though they knew Roger saw them.</p><p>For a minute, Roger’s focus on his friend and his fiancé’s whispered argument about what they should do drowned out the spiel Tim spewed through the speaker. It was only when the brunette raised his voice that the blonde remembered he was on the phone, with his boyfriend screaming, <em>“Hey, are you even listening to me?”</em></p><p>“Y-Yeah,” he stuttered. “I’m listening.”</p><p>
  <em>“Then answer my question.”</em>
</p><p>With reddened cheeks, Roger retreated to the kitchen and sat down at the table buried in dirty dishes left over from that morning. He dropped an elbow on each side of the food-speckled plate and covered his face with his free hand, resenting how strong of an effect Tim had on him—even through a phone—and how foolish he’d been to think that he could get away with this so easily.</p><p>Nothing in life had ever been easy for him; from the time he was a child to now, not once did he ever get a break. It was just one hardship after the other, and although Tim had been there for him at his worst, Roger didn’t need him anymore. He hadn’t needed him for a while now, but it was just too hard to let him go, and because of that, the blonde gave his boyfriend the answer that worked for every question, both heard and unheard.</p><p>“I’m sorry, Tim. I messed up.”</p><p>He knew the lack of conviction he portrayed was pathetic, his apology coming off dull and flat, but he was tired. He couldn’t muster the strength to maintain the façade his boyfriend needed. He didn’t want to keep playing the role that Tim cast him in against his will, using him to provide them with what they never had before—a home, a family, a place in this sick and twisted world that concealed them with shadows and closed doors. That was then, though, and this was now.</p><p>Roger and Tim weren’t the same people they were ten years ago. They had a roof over their heads, someone they could count on, and they no longer felt like they had to hide who they were. It was time they move on, and the blonde saw that; he <em>felt </em>that. His boyfriend, on the other hand, was too drunk and stubborn to even consider the possibility.</p><p><em>“You’re sorry,” </em>Tim repeated. <em>“You don’t know what sorry is, Roger.”</em></p><p>“Oh, don’t I?” Roger couldn’t help but reply—the sarcasm in his voice exposing his growing frustration with the situation.</p><p><em>“No, you don’t, and I’m going to prove it to you. You just wait and see. You’ll be back here before you know it, and you’re going to wish you never left.” </em>With that final threat, the line went dead, and Roger slowly lowered the phone away from his ear. He stared at the device that suddenly felt much heavier, like a brick, but it wasn’t because he was scared. He was done with being scared of his boyfriend. Like he’d said to Brian, Tim wasn’t there, and with an ocean between them, there was no way he could sabotage this opportunity for Roger like he did the last one. No way. He wouldn’t let him.</p><p>The feet of the chair scraped against the linoleum flooring as the blonde abruptly stood up, turning around to place the phone back in its cradle when he spotted Freddie in the doorway between the kitchen and the entryway. His grip on the device tightened as his jaw clenched, Roger recognizing his friend’s intent to interrogate him from the simultaneous look of concern and intrigue slathered across his face.</p><p>Before Freddie could even attempt to ask what had transpired over the phone call, Roger hung up the phone and mumbled, “I don’t want to talk about it, Fred.”</p><p>“You know he just said that to get on your nerves,” the dark-haired man muttered, playing with the buttons on his shirt as he watched his friend walk over to the fridge and rip it open, searching the shelves for something strong enough to pass the day away. Freddie’s comment went without reaction—the fact that he’d listened in on Roger’s and Tim’s conversation unsurprising to the blonde. What other option did he have after getting his cover blown? “He can’t do anything now that you’re over here and he’s back there.”</p><p>“I know,” Roger agreed tersely, straightening his posture and shutting the refrigerator door. “That’s why I’m not worried.”</p><p>His boyfriend, on the other hand, was.</p><p>It started when Tim woke up yesterday, with a blaring headache, a pair of boxers hanging loosely around his thighs, and the sheets kicked off the bed that he had all to himself. This certainly wasn’t the first morning he’d woken up to an empty bed—even back in London he was accustomed to waking up alone, the blonde either still with a client or making his way back—but it didn’t occur to him that Roger was truly gone until he got up and rolled out of bed to see the plane ticket missing from the kitchen counter.</p><p>As Tim stared at the cleared countertop, a wave of emotions crashed over him. He felt lonely, lost, conflicted, all at the same time. When he asked Roger what he was supposed to do the night before he left, it wasn’t some romantic, last-ditch effort to get the blonde to change his mind—he’d made it very clear that he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity. What that question was, was Tim asking for help.</p><p>All these years, the brunette had had the blonde to guide him along, bringing him out of the darkness and misery that living with his father encompassed and showing him that there was light at the end of the tunnel. Most of all, he taught him that being broken wasn’t something permanent; that if you find the right person, you can glue those shattered pieces back together and become whole again. Roger was his glue, and he knew that without him, he was nothing. He fell apart; he crumbled, back to the fragments of a man that he was before the blonde had entered his life.</p><p>That’s why Tim didn’t want Roger to go; why he became so defensive and discouraging when the blonde mentioned his new opportunity. Without Roger, he was like a puppeteer without a puppet; a magician without his assistant. Things just didn’t feel right without him, and the longer he stayed in that dingy, small, three-room apartment by himself, the more unbearable the solitude became.</p><p>He first sought refuge in his friend, the landlord, who he ended up spending most of the day with—smoking, drinking, and taking whatever his friend had to offer that would get his mind off the blonde. Tim found himself in a haze of drugs and alcohol, similar to the one he wound up in after visiting Roger at the bar he worked at and being handed off to his coworker. Little did he know that this night would play out much the same.</p><p>The sun had made its entire journey across the sky and behind the horizon before Tim sobered up enough to will himself out of the landlord’s apartment, his friend too strung out to respond to the brunette’s slurred goodbye and drunken waltz back to his apartment. After taking a piss and throwing on the same Beatles’ record Roger had put on the night he decided to cut his hair, Tim wandered out onto the balcony and plopped down in the chair, puffing a cigarette and grabbing the phone that had been set on the ground. He heaved a dejected sigh and waited for the calls to roll in.</p><p>When they didn’t—the night still too young for his callers to be reaching out to him—he gave up and decided to go out, knowing there wasn’t enough alcohol in their fridge to make hanging around the empty apartment again sufferable. He was about to leave when he opened the door and saw someone standing in the hallway, their hand raised in a fist as if they were about to knock. His eyebrow arched in recognition of the face, but for the life of him, he couldn’t put a name to it.</p><p>“Can I help you?” Tim asked bluntly, snatching up one of Roger’s jackets that he’d left behind with one hand and bringing a new cigarette to his lips with the other.</p><p>“Yeah, uh, is Roger here?” the visitor wondered, leaning to the side to glimpse into the apartment behind him. All the lights were on and the LP was still playing in the bedroom, the needle dancing along the vinyl’s ridges without any intent to stop—even when it reached the very center.</p><p>The brunette blew a stream of smoke into the stranger’s face and answered, “No. He left this morning.” He pinched the cigarette between his lips and slipped into the garment that still carried a hint of the blonde’s cologne. “Why? Were you looking to take him away too?”</p><p>“Well, only for the night,” the tall man before him replied with a slight chuckle, the corner of his lip pricking upward into a smirk. Tim stared at him with undoubtable disinterest, causing the visitor to clear his throat and address the elephant in the room. “You don’t remember me, do you?”</p><p>Tim tugged at the jacket to get it to fit more comfortably. “Not really. Should I?”</p><p>“I’m Geoff,” he reintroduced himself, not an ounce of shame in his voice. “I work with Roger at the bar?” The brunette’s indifferent gaze remained unchanged. “I was the one who brought you home that other night?”</p><p>He clicked his tongue. “Oh, right! Because you got me so fucked up, you had me thinking that I died and went to hell.”</p><p>Geoff nodded his head in affirmation and shoved his hands into the pockets of his puffy jacket. “Well that’s certainly one way to look at it.”</p><p>“Yeah, I remember exactly who you are, and how I never wanted to see you or your...your creepy, piercing blue eyes ever again.” The brunette grabbed the doorknob and shut the door of his apartment, brushing shoulders with the bartender sporting a raised eyebrow and heading down the hallway, taking a deep drag from the white stick.</p><p>He didn’t get very far before Geoff called out to him, “You said Roger had left this morning? For where?”</p><p>Tim stopped in his tracks and dropped his head back, annoyed with Roger’s coworker. “He went to London,” he begrudgingly shared, exhaling the smoke he’d inhaled and glancing back over his shoulder. “‘Got a gig playing in some band.”</p><p>“A gig, huh?” the bartender entertained, crossing his arms over his chest and shortening the distance between him and the brunette. “You know, I think I remember him saying something about that...getting his dream gig.”</p><p>“<em>Our</em> dream gig,” Tim grumbled pettily, matching Geoff’s stance as he turned to face him. “He got <em>our </em>dream gig, and he wants me to be fucking supportive of him.” He scoffed and shook his head, taking a quick drag before asking with a disbelieving laugh, “Can you believe him?”</p><p>“The nerve of that guy,” Geoff played along, recognizing the pain that Tim was trying to suppress and knowing just the cure for it. He draped an arm around Tim’s shoulder and pulled him close, suggesting, “Say, why don’t you come to the bar with me? You look like you could use a drink, and lucky for you, your boyfriend started a tab just before he left. Drinks will be on him.”</p><p>Fueled by his anger and his initial desire to go out, the brunette agreed to tag along, and before he knew it, he was right back where he started—early morning, plastered, dialing Freddie’s number from a payphone outside the bar and letting Roger know how he really felt. Standing outside the booth and waiting for him to finish was Geoff, struggling to light a blunt with shaky hands and his lower half dressed like a woman.</p><p>It certainly wasn’t what Tim had planned for when he decided to leave his apartment, but he found himself a new friend in Geoff that night. Their friendship would prove great for the brunette, filling that void in his life that Roger’s absence created. However, for the blonde, it would prove detrimental—their loyalty to one another something dangerous.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian experienced a sense of déjà vu as the rest of his day unfolded, his mind once again fixated on the blonde. All he could think about was finishing what he and Roger had started, and how dangerous of a game he’d be playing if it became something more. The ring wrapped around his finger reminded him that he was a married man; the picture in his desk drawer of him, his wife, and their newborn baby girl reminded him that he had a daughter to raise; and the side-eyed glances from his peers reminded him that he was subject to their judgment—already on thin ice for not only having an affair with a colleague, but knocking her up too.</p><p>He couldn’t imagine what would happen if they discovered he’d been messing around with Roger, the former music instructor who came into their lives as quickly as he left it. He doubted they would fire him over it but worried they might because he was the youngest and most inexperienced faculty member, therefore making him the most expendable. Affairs aside, part of him—and part of many others too—believed that the only reason he hadn’t been fired yet was because of his relationship with Chrissie. If that was to be threatened, he feared he wouldn’t lose only his position, but everything...<em>everything</em>.</p><p>Sitting with these thoughts all day, it was only natural that Brian’s classes went by in a blur and the stack of graded exams hadn’t changed much from that morning. He hadn’t even noticed it was after five until John stuck his head into the lecture hall to wish his professor a goodnight, saying he’d see him tomorrow for his music lesson. With reddened cheeks, Brian gathered his belongings and locked up the room.</p><p>He made his way up to the headmistress’s office, knocking on her opened door and peering in to see that she wasn’t alone—Sting sitting on the edge of her desk, facing her. The smiles that were stretched across both their faces vanished as they looked back at Brian, Chrissie uncomfortably clearing her throat to say, “Hey, Brian. Ready to go?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s after five,” the professor answered, pointing to the clock on the wall behind the headmistress’s desk.</p><p>“Oh, wow, really?” Ray’s replacement asked, pushing his sleeve back to look at his watch. “Last time I checked it was only three. I’ve got to get going.” He hopped down from her desk and made his way over to the door whose threshold Brian was leaned against—arms crossed over his chest and lips tugged ever so slightly downward into a frown. “I’ve got this audition tonight for my band,” Sting explained, eyeing the professor from head to toe and back again before suggesting with a smirk, “Maybe if it doesn’t go well, <em>you</em> could audition for us. I’ve been dying to know how your song for Roger goes.”</p><p>Brian’s cheeks burned with embarrassment as the substitute punched him playfully in the arm and bid the two farewell, his footsteps echoing down the hallway and breaking up the silence that consumed the office following his departure. Taking in a deep breath, Chrissie stood up from her desk and began to sort through her things with a passive aggression that Brian couldn’t ignore.</p><p>“You know, that...that’s not really what it’s called,” he muttered in a vain attempt to subdue her rising assumptions.</p><p>“I don’t care what it’s called, Brian,” the headmistress grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder and meeting her husband’s gaze—a mix of disappointment and exasperation glistening in her eyes. “You told me you wanted to give us a second try.”</p><p>The professor scoffed. “And I still do!”</p><p>“Then stop writing songs about him,” Chrissie snapped, snatching her coat up from the back of her chair. “And stop telling stories about him to Liz.” She crossed the room and looked Brian dead in the eyes, explaining under her breath, “The walls at your house are thin, and you’re not as quiet as you think you are.” The professor watched with wide eyes as she brushed past him and disappeared in the direction Sting had left, stunned by her inadvertent confession. His heart was heavy as he listened to the fading click of her high heels, cut short when she reached the end of the hallway and called out to him, “Come on, Bri, let’s go. Your mum’s waiting for us.”</p><p>“R-Right,” he stuttered, peeling away from the threshold and trudging down the hallway to meet her. When he joined the headmistress’s side, there was an undeniable coldness that formed and lingered as they made the trek out to the car park together.</p><p>“‘Night, Professor,” Dominique purred as the couple passed by the student who normally was surrounded by her group of friends, but this time was all alone—perched atop a windowsill with a cigarette pinched between her fingers and her mini-skirt folded back to expose a sliver of her lacy knickers. She brought the white stick up to her lips and smirked at the attention she received, taking a rebellious drag and blowing out a steady stream of smoke as she turned her head to look out the window.</p><p>“Goodnight, Dominique,” Brian replied with a clenched jaw, wrapping his hand around Chrissie’s and pulling her towards the exit, only to be met with an unexpected resistance—the headmistress’s feet planted firmly on the ground. “What are you—” he began to whisper when he was interrupted.</p><p>“Do you have an extra smoke to spare, Miss Beyrand?” Chrissie asked fervently, attracting the student’s suspicious gaze and arching the professor’s brow.</p><p>“Are you serious?” the French girl chuckled, believing this was some trick the headmistress was trying to pull in order to get her in trouble. This was no trick, though, which Chrissie proved by nodding her head in affirmation and breaking away from her husband to accept the girl’s reluctant offer. Dominique held up her lighter to the white stick that trembled in the headmistress’s hand, igniting the one end and watching as her superior breathed in, coughing only a bit before begrudgingly thanking the girl and heading for the doors.</p><p>Brian’s bewildered gaze flickered between his wife and the student who shrugged her shoulders and took another casual drag. The professor heaved a sigh and ran out after the headmistress who was already halfway across the parking lot, a cloud of smoke billowing into the air around her.</p><p>“Chrissie!” he yelled, his wife ignoring him as she continued her way to their car—a handful of snowflakes drifting through the air. “Chrissie!”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it, Brian!” she shouted, spinning around and freezing the professor in his tracks. “Just let me deal with this the way I want to deal with it, alright?”</p><p>He swallowed the lump in his throat and tightened his hands into fists. “Fine, deal with it the way you want to, but for everyone’s sake, would you stop acting like you’re the victim here? Because you’re not; you’re in love with someone else too.”</p><p>Chrissie scoffed and folded her arms over her chest. “So, you’re in love with him now.”</p><p>The professor’s face drained of all color—all color except for the red in his cheeks. “No, Chrissie, that’s not what I—” he tried to explain, but the headmistress had no desire to hear him out. She turned on her heel and stormed off to the car, leaving him no choice but to drag his feet behind her in silence and think about what he’d said. The issue was, he wasn’t thinking when he spoke. The words just came out, slipping past his lips like prisoners with an agenda—their escape unbeknownst to the wardens, but a long, calculated time in the making.</p><p>Brian had had a year to process his feelings, and even though he hadn’t fully realized it, he’d decided that yes, he was in love with Roger. He couldn’t deny it anymore. The blonde was the one he wanted to wake up to every morning, the one he wanted to come home to after a hard day’s work, and the one he wanted to join in bed at the end of the day. The only thing stopping him before was the obligation he felt he had to Chrissie, but after everything that had happened, he began to wonder if he’d made the right choice. Even the headmistress had started to display similar doubts, saying it best when she asked, “How is the right thing when we’re both so fucking miserable?”</p><p>He claimed not to be, but had he been miserable this whole time and, like his feelings for Roger, just didn’t realize it? Were his career, his marriage, and his daughter but mere distractions, preventing him from pursuing what he really wanted? These thoughts plagued the professor’s mind the entire ride home—from the university to his mother’s house, and from his mother’s house to his house—and as soon as he pulled into the driveway, he ran inside, sat himself down at the kitchen table, ripped his notebook out from his bag, and began to scribble down the words he’d been struggling to find that suddenly became clear to him.</p><p>Chrissie didn’t even dare to bother Brian in his manic state, crossing the threshold with Liz in her arms and taking her straight upstairs, where she intended to stay the rest of the night but couldn’t—their daughter requiring a bottle before bed. With much reluctance, the headmistress ventured downstairs and into the kitchen, where she stumbled upon her husband, fast asleep. Had she not still been mad at him, the sight would’ve tugged at her heart, but all she felt was disgust and antipathy.</p><p>Pushing past her conflicted feelings, Chrissie walked over to the fridge and grabbed one of the bottles they had prepared from the freezer, taking it over to the sink and running it under a steady stream of warm water. As she waited for the milk to defrost, her gaze wandered over to the table, where tucked beneath Brian’s folded arms was his notebook. A string of words piqued the headmistress’s curiosity and, after much internal debate, drew her over.</p><p>She placed the thawed bottle down on the table and delicately pulled the notebook out from underneath him, turning it around and reading:</p><p>
  <em>You never heard my song before, the music was too loud<br/>But now I think you hear me well, for now we both know how<br/>No star can light our way in this cloud of dark and fear<br/>But some day, one day</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Funny how the pages turn and hold us in between<br/>A misty castle waits for you and you shall be a queen<br/>Today the cloud, it hangs over us and all is gray<br/>But some day, one day</em>
</p><p>“Hey,” a groggy voice startled the headmistress, the notebook dropping to the ground and her hands flying up in a show of innocence. Brian didn’t seem to notice, though, as he stretched his arms and back—the latter cracking. He hissed at the burst of pain but soon relaxed and asked while rubbing his eyes, “What time is it?”</p><p>“A-A little after eleven,” Chrissie stammered, resting her shaky hands on her hips and shifting her gaze to her feet out of embarrassment.</p><p>“Really? That late?” He stood up and scratched his head. “Why didn’t you come and get me?”</p><p>The headmistress shrugged her shoulders, biting her lip and watching out of the corner of her eye as her husband turned away from her and dragged himself out of the room, trudging up the stairs without saying another word—not even “goodnight.” Chrissie waited for the soft click of their bedroom door to bend down and snatch the notebook up from where it landed, taking a seat at the table herself and reading the lyrics once over, wanting to know what they meant.</p><p>A tear trickled down her cheek and splashed onto the paper as she figured it out, leaving an incriminating mark for Brian to find when he revisited his work. He wouldn’t get the chance to confront her, though, because a more pressing matter would present itself in the form of a phone call that caused the headmistress to jump for the second time that evening.</p><p>Worried it would upset Liz more than her neglected bottle, Chrissie scrambled out of the chair and picked the phone up off the receiver, holding it up to her ear and whispering, “Hello?”</p><p><em>“Chrissie,” </em>a voice she hadn’t heard in years sounded through the speaker, sending chills down her spine. <em>“Hey.”</em></p><p>“Stewart,” she gasped. “What are you...how did you...how did you get this number?”</p><p><em>“The operators over here are much more friendly than they are in America,” </em>the drummer replied with a smile that could be heard over the phone and made Chrissie blush. <em>“I’ve missed you, you know. It’s been a while since I last saw you.”</em></p><p>“Yeah, it has,” the headmistress agreed, leaning against the wall and glancing back at the table where her husband’s notebook lay open and her daughter’s bottle grew cold. “A lot’s happened since then.”</p><p><em>“Why don’t you tell me all about it later this week?” </em>he suggested, a seductive undertone to his proposal. <em>“I’ve got a new band and we just found ourselves a guitarist. We’re playing a show this Saturday, and I think you should come.”</em></p><p>Chrissie pressed her lips together, tempted by the offer but harshly reminded of why she shouldn’t by Liz’s growing cry from upstairs. “I-I’ll have to think about it, Stewart,” she rambled off, her heartbeat racing. “I’ve got to go now, though. Bye.” She slammed the phone down in its cradle and snatched the room temperature bottle up from the table, darting up the stairs and bursting into the nursery to find her daughter already in her father’s arms, the two of them in the rocking chair together. The headmistress heaved a frustrated sigh and entered the room with laggard steps, stealing her husband’s attention.</p><p>“Who was it?” Brian asked, the chair squeaking underneath him as he rocked back and forth, the alternating motion soothing his unsettled baby girl.</p><p>“No one,” Chrissie answered tersely, extending the bottle out to him with a subtle air of opposition. “Just some prank call from a student.”</p><p>The professor only hummed in response, taking the bottle from her and bringing it up to their daughter’s lips—the lukewarm milk instantly silencing her shrill cries. The parents stayed in the room for a bit longer together, finding an odd sense of comfort in the company despite everything that transpired earlier. Brian even found it in himself to joke, “I bet you it was one of mine.” He met his wife’s tired gaze from across the room and smirked. “They love to badger me.”</p><p>The corners of Chrissie’s lips twitched in a failed attempt to return the grin, but ultimately curled downward as she contemplated what to do about Stewart. If she were to accept his invitation, she would be no better than Brian, jeopardizing their lives for a meaningless fling. Then again, Chrissie didn’t think of her affair with Stewart as a meaningless fling. It had been going on for too long to be considered as such. The way she looked at it, she was well in her right to go and see him. After all, it wasn’t like her husband was making any efforts to suppress his feelings for Roger.</p><p>“Hey,” Brian whispered, snapping his wife out of the pensive daze she’d fallen into, “What’s wrong?”</p><p>“What are we doing here, Brian?” Chrissie chuckled, an undeniable sadness to her laugh. “I mean, really, why haven’t you left me already? You clearly don’t love me anymore, so what are you still doing here?”</p><p>The professor clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to respond with his usual answer of <em>that’s not true</em>, knowing it never got him anywhere and starting to believe it had lost its authenticity. So, instead, he told her, “I’m here because of her.” He tilted his head towards Liz. “We’re a family.”</p><p>“And what if we weren’t?” the exasperated headmistress rattled off. “What if we weren’t a family, Brian? Would you still stick around?” Brian stared at Chrissie and the pained expression that washed over her, turning her away from him in shame as the tension from before returned with no mercy.</p><p>He swallowed the lump in his throat and shifted his gaze down to the baby girl in his arms, her eyelids growing heavy and her grip on the bottle loosening. He smirked at the sight, forgetting for just a moment the situation he was in. It amazed Brian how Liz still had the same effect on him that Roger first did, reminding him of what could and what will be. Focusing on her, anything was possible.</p><p>“Well?” the headmistress muttered, the tables turning as she brought Brian back to reality. She’d kept her back to him, but her arms were now crossed, and her head was turned over her shoulder—her glistening eyes locked on him and Liz. “Would you?”</p><p>“What kind of silly question is that?” he murmured, setting the empty bottle down on the floor and slowly getting up from the rocking chair to lay the baby whose eyes had fallen shut in her crib.</p><p>“I’m just saying,” Chrissie mumbled, watching as Brian carefully slipped his hands out from underneath their daughter and turned towards her. “If we didn’t have her, would you still be here?”</p><p>The professor looked down at Liz and tucked his hands into the pockets of his pants, shrugging his shoulders and answering honestly, “I don’t know.” He returned his attention to his wife and repeated softly, “I don’t know.”</p><p>She nodded her head in understanding, choking out, “Well, I don’t know if I’d still be here either.” With that, she left the nursery and crossed the hall to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with a force that could’ve woken up their daughter but didn’t and leaving Brian with the weight of the hypothetical situation she proposed. <em>What if we’re not a family? </em></p><p>He stole another quick glance at his daughter, watching as her small chest rose and fell with each shallow breath she took. He bit his lip and looked back at the closed bathroom door, shifting his gaze between the two before finally coming to the conclusion he feared.</p><p>
  <em>He'd done it all wrong.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian didn’t think it was possible, believing that he’d hit rock bottom when Chrissie left him and took Liz with her, but the morning following their unresolved conversation proved to be much worse. Though the professor’s evening had played out much the same, with him forgoing sleep in favor of adding to his abysmal collection of empty beer bottles, having Chrissie there at sunrise made it feel like deliberate torture. At least before, she had the decency of giving him space to deal with the situation, but this time she was right there, standing in his kitchen and making a fresh pot of coffee; acting as if all they needed to forget about the words they exchanged last night was a good, hot cup of joe.</p><p>However, it wasn’t what Chrissie said that disturbed Brian the most. It was what she <em>didn’t </em>say; what her lack of words <em>implied</em>. No matter how many beers Brian popped open and brought to his lips that night, he couldn’t distract himself from the heartbreaking possibility that plagued him from dusk till dawn, streaking his cheeks with dried tears and twisting his stomach into knots. The professor didn’t even realize it was morning until Chrissie came downstairs with Liz and nudged him awake at the kitchen table.</p><p>The tension in the room was so thick that it could be cut with a knife as the headmistress got on with her morning, blatantly refusing to acknowledge the elephant in the room, so much so that the first words she spoke were to ask if Brian was going to get ready to leave after everything had already been cleaned up.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her, his eyes locked on the notebook that still lay open—his song on full display—and his hands wrapped around the cold mug of coffee he hadn’t lifted up from the table since Chrissie set it down.</p><p>“What do you mean you’re not going anywhere?” she snapped, returning to the kitchen after disappearing to the foyer to grab her coat.</p><p>“I don’t feel well,” he grumbled, his hold on the wasted drink growing tighter. “I think it would be best if I stayed home today.”</p><p>The headmistress scoffed, zipping up her jacket. “You can’t do that, Brian. You’ve got classes to teach; exams to grade.” She stepped forward and slipped her hands underneath their daughter’s arms, lifting her up out of the highchair she sat in and adding, “It’s the start of the second semester. Your students need you.”</p><p>His bloodshot eyes slowly broke away from the spot they’d been focused on and traveled to meet hers. “I said, I’m staying home,” he growled, talking to his wife in a way she never bore witness to before. Had they not been walking on eggshells around one another, she would’ve continued the argument like she wanted to, but instead she just pressed her lips together and retreated to the entryway with Liz on her hip.</p><p>Not another word was spoken between the two until Chrissie left the house and muttered, “Feel better, Bri,” on her way out. The professor listened with defiantly crossed arms as the door clicked shut behind her, the car’s engine roared to life, and the gravel crunched beneath its wheels. He jumped out of his chair before the screech of the tires could sound and rushed into the living room, parting the curtains and watching Chrissie speed off down the street. A heavy weight rested on his shoulders as she turned the corner, leaving him to wonder how she could put what happened behind her so easily.</p><p>Perhaps it was because the situation wasn’t as shocking for her as it was for Brian. After all, the only thing she had to lose in all of this was her reputation, but whose reputation would be worse off when the truth was exposed—the headmistress who had a history of leaving her husbands for someone else, or the professor who no one expected would be involved in such a scandal? Either way, Brian knew he’d never be looked at the same way again, and the thought of walking into that school with everyone’s judgmental eyes on him made him want to flee town all over again.</p><p>He felt alone, like no one else had ever dealt with the circumstances he found himself in—when in reality, his dilemma wasn’t his own. Falling in and out of love with someone wasn’t something new, nor was developing feelings for someone other than your significant other. In fact, Roger was going through the same thing, yet Brian was too preoccupied with himself to see that. All he saw was the faint reflection of a man in the window whose life was falling to pieces, and the only one to blame was himself.</p><p>The silence that consumed the house did no favors in helping the professor suppress his spiraling thoughts. If anything, it amplified them, and the only solution Brian could think of was to escape; to leave. Not forever, but long enough to clear his mind, and looking at that picture of him, his mother, and his father sitting on the mantle, he knew exactly where—or rather <em>who</em>—he needed to go to.</p><p>After switching out of yesterday’s clothes and remembering that Freddie had said that Roger was going to be helping out at the stall, Brian hopped in the spare car that once belonged to Chrissie but now took residence in the detached, one-car garage—the couple finding it easier to drive to the university together ever since she moved in—and attempted to turn the engine over. However, being idle for so long, all the car could muster was a pathetic sputter.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” the professor groaned, twisting the key inside the ignition harder—as if lack of force was the issue instead of the needle sitting above the letter <strong>E </strong>on the dashboard. He heaved a sigh and dropped his head back against the headrest, feeling as though his morning was just getting worse and worse.</p><p>Thankfully, his neighbor—whom Brian had never seen or interacted with before but instantly recognized as Reid, the same Reid that first clued him in to Roger’s alter ego—overheard the trouble he was having and offered the professor a quart of petrol. Though it didn’t take long for the Scottish man to pour the liquid into the tank and get the vehicle running, the professor had resorted to biting his nails in fears that <em>he</em> would recognize <em>him</em>, or better yet, try to spark a conversation with him about the blonde.</p><p>Nevertheless, Reid failed to make the connection in time and—after wiping his hands on his pants, pants much more casual than the ones he wore the night they met—bid his neighbor a good rest of the day. Brian nodded his head in appreciation and watched the man walk back to his house, noticing that there was someone standing at the end of their driveway, waiting for him with arms folded over their chest. The two instantly began to argue, but the words shot at one another were lost in the distance that grew between them and Brian as they retreated inside.</p><p>When the door slammed shut behind them—the sharp sound echoing throughout the entire neighborhood—Brian snapped out of the daze he’d fallen into and slipped into the car, strapping the seatbelt across his chest and backing out. He’d unconsciously grown impatient with his desire to see Roger and forget about everything he fought hard to remember prior, and with a lead foot, he drove the gas pedal into the floor and propelled the car forward, anxiously cruising down the crowded streets of London until he reached Kensington Market.</p><p>As Brian pushed his way through the shopping center—which was surprisingly crowded for a weekday morning—he started to doubt his intentions, worrying the blonde wouldn’t be there. After all, Freddie’s only comment was that he’d be working there with him again “soon.” The professor had no idea how <em>soon</em> “soon” would be, but as if his morning was suddenly on track to get better, he found Roger at the stall, perched behind the counter on a stool with a cigarette sticking out from the corner of his mouth and a guitar in his lap. He didn’t seem to be playing the instrument, though, opting to pin it against his chest with the back of his arms and mindlessly flip through a magazine instead.</p><p>The professor couldn’t help the smile that appeared on his face, his helplessly eager footsteps as he entered alerting the blonde of his presence.</p><p>“Shit, Brian,” Roger muttered, plucking the white stick from in between his lips and setting the guitar down beside him. “What are you...” He stood up and adjusted the shirt he’d borrowed from Freddie—though he didn’t so much borrow it as Freddie insisted he wear it, claiming that his new “American” clothing was “off-brand” and would “turn potential customers away.” Though Roger disagreed, he still threw it on.</p><p>“What are you doing here?” he finished his sentence, adding on, “Shouldn’t you be at the university?”</p><p>Brian clasped his hands behind his back and began to wander around the store, browsing the overabundance of selections and answering, “Yeah, but I wanted to see you.” His eyes flickered across the shop, catching the nervous glint in the baby blues he wished he could stare into all day. “Maybe finish what we started.”</p><p>The blonde stared at the unexpected guest in awe, still in shock from his arrival. It wasn’t that he’d forgotten about him or his suggestion; it was that his mind had been preoccupied with something else—his audition last night, particularly what happened afterwards.</p><p>
  <em>“So,” Stewart blurted out, standing up from his throne and running a blistered hand through his hair drenched with sweat. “What do you think, Sting? Is he in?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The bassist heaved a sigh and set his instrument down in its stand, crossing his arms and turning to face Roger whose eyes glimmered with a mix of hope and desperation. If he was being completely honest, he wasn’t overly impressed with the other blonde’s guitar skills, but he wasn’t half bad, and they were running out of time to find someone for their show this weekend. So, after a long, tension-filled pause, he shrugged his shoulders and answered, “Sure.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, thank god,” Roger muttered, crossing the room and wrapping his arms around the bassist who instantly tensed up. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I won’t let you down.” Sting met Stewart’s amused gaze with a raised eyebrow, watching a smirk crawl onto the drummer’s face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“N-No problem,” the bassist stammered, patting Roger on the back while Stewart retreated to the kitchen upstairs to get everyone something to drink. “Just learn the songs for Saturday and show up on time, alright?” he said, separating the two of them and keeping the guitarist at an arm’s distance.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You got it,” Roger agreed, nodding his head and taking an awkward step back. He hung his head to mask the blush that appeared in his cheeks and brought a hand to the back of his neck, lifting his gaze up from the ground only when Stewart rejoined the pair and offered them each a cold one.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Those cans of beer would be the first of many, leading to the smoky haze that filled Sting’s basement and brought the three of them together in a circle on the floor amongst the mock stage set up. They sipped their drinks that had lost their kick and passed around a joint that grew smaller and smaller with each drag, reveling in the calm that the intoxicating combination induced. Time had slipped away from all of them, but it soon became a harsh reality when Stewart turned to Sting, holding out the burning white stick to him, and joked, “You know, if we get big enough, you won’t have to keep picking up all those temporary teaching jobs.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Oh, no way,” the bassist replied with a chuckle, snatching the blunt from him and bringing it to his lips. After drawing in a deep breath and holding it for a second—using that time to hand off the special cigarette to the next blonde over—he explained, “You wouldn’t think it, but those schools...they’ve got more going on behind the scenes than Coronation Street. I mean, at the university I’m at right now, there’s a couple there whose whole relationship is a total sham.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“How do you know?” the drummer questioned, noticing the strange expression that washed over Roger’s face. He’d never realize it was because weed was the blonde’s last drug of choice and not because of what Sting had said, for Roger was too consumed by his own thoughts to even hear the bassist’s comment. His next one, though, would grab his attention.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Because the bird tells me everything,” Sting answered, leaning back into the amp he was slumped in front of. “I bet you I know more about their relationship than her husband does. I mean, for fuck’s sake, the bloke’s down in the basement writing songs for a guy named Roger while she’s up in her office—” The rest of his sentence fell to the wayside as his bloodshot eyes traveled over to meet the blonde’s wide ones, the connection he failed to make before becoming as clear as ever. “No fucking way.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What?” Stewart injected, oblivious to the association between the song and the new guitarist.</em>
</p><p><em>“I don’t bloody believe it. </em>You’re<em> Roger!” Sting exclaimed, jumping up from the ground and throwing his index finger in the other blonde’s direction. “You’re the guy he cheated on her with!”</em></p><p>
  <em>A deep rouge flushed Roger’s cheeks, contradicting his stuttered response of, “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</em>
</p><p><em>“Of course you do,” the bassist argued, swooping down so that he was eye level with Roger and staring right at him as the corner of his lips twitched upward into a scrutinizing grin. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You know exactly </em>who <em>I’m talking about. You—”</em></p><p><em>“Oh, give him a break, Sting,” Stewart cut in, languidly leaning forward and crawling over to the pair to push them apart. “You’re high—we’re </em>all <em>high. What does it matter if the songs are about him? He’s not the only Roger that exists in the world, you know. It could be about any of them.”</em></p><p>
  <em>“But—”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No buts!” the drummer shouted playfully, picking himself up off the floor and announcing he had a call to make. “If I return and you’re still badgering him about that damn song, I’m gonna...”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You’re gonna...” Sting repeated mockingly, knowing his friend’s threat was empty.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m gonna think of something!” he promised, escaping the room and leaving his two bandmates to sit in the uncomfortable silence that blanketed over them. Roger did everything he could in his impaired state to avoid the bassist’s gaze, which meant locking eyes with the clock hanging on the wall next to the staircase and realizing that it was almost three in the morning.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, scrambling to his feet and making a mad dash for the stairs. He was so quick that Sting didn’t even get the chance to ask him what happened or think of making a joke about his affair with the professor.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>He ran as far as he could before his legs gave out and resigned him to a phone booth where he used the change he scraped up from the ground to ring his friend who, from the tone in his groggy voice, didn’t appreciate the late-night call.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I need you to pick me up, Fred,” he whispered, his short, rapid breaths appearing on the fogged windows of the box. </em>
</p><p><em>“Now?” </em>Roger finally replied, his voice cracking.</p><p>“Now,” Brian repeated, stopping behind a rack of clothing and glancing over it with a glint of mischief in his eyes. Roger had never been more thankful for the counter separating him from the professor; hiding his lower half that began to strain against his tight pants.</p><p>“But what if someone sees us?” the blonde proposed, his concern rooted more in procrastination than actual apprehension.</p><p>The professor’s gaze flickered over to the dressing rooms, wordlessly providing the solution to their problem. Roger had to swallow the moan that emanated from the back of his throat, clutching the counter and watching Brian slip behind the curtain. He took in a deep breath and straightened his posture, leaning back to catch a glimpse of the professor’s reflection in the purposefully placed mirrors. Luckily, the Market had yet to be successful in their endeavor in repositioning them, so the blonde had a full view of him—and he knew it.</p><p>Brian began to unbutton his shirt, one button at a time, and looked up to catch Roger mid-stare. The blonde fell helpless to the invitation the professor’s smirk evoked, checking the entrance of the stall to make sure no one was coming in before rounding the counter and rushing into the dressing room. Roger’s hand hadn’t even left the curtain before Brian drew him in, pressing his lips fervently against the younger man's and pulling the two of them close—their clothed erections almost impossible to ignore.</p><p>The kiss was rough and spontaneous, something Roger hadn’t expected from the unusually confident professor. Moments like this were all too common for the blonde, but with Brian, it felt different. The fight for dominance wasn’t easily won. The two first fell into the full-length mirror parallel to the curtain, then the one to the right, and lastly, the one opposite that—each time with someone else’s back to the reflective surface.</p><p>Roger pulled away for air and gazed into the professor’s lusty eyes, slipping his hands underneath the professor’s button-down that hung loosely from his chest and sliding the garment to the ground. Without breaking eye contact, he dropped to his knees and began working at Brian’s belt, tearing it out from the belt loops and tossing it behind him. He ran his hands up the professor’s quivering thighs and grinned as the man towering over him wove his fingers into his blonde locks for support and returned the smile, assuring him that he wasn’t going to stop him this time.</p><p>The blonde undid the button and tugged at the zipper, the trousers joining the shirt on the floor and revealing his underwear that were already sporting a small, wet stain in the front. Roger licked his lips and hooked his fingers beneath the boxer’s waistband, yanking them down Brian’s legs. Within the blink of an eye, he had taken the professor’s erection in his mouth, his pleasured moan causing Brian’s eyes to flutter shut and his head to rest back on the mirror he leaned against.</p><p>Roger bobbed back and forth at a pace which he let Brian determine, gripping his hair as more and more of his length slipped past the blonde’s lips. The professor’s legs began to twitch, and before he could relieve himself from the tension that began to grow in his lower abdomen, Roger pulled back with a pop and wiped the drool from his lips, his retracting hand slowly revealing the wicked smirk they’d formed.</p><p>No words were exchanged as the blonde stood up and brought his lips to Brian’s, forcing the professor to taste himself as his tongue explored his mouth. Tripping over each other’s feet, they stumbled into the opposite wall, Brian slamming Roger up against it like he had the chalkboard, except this time he was bare from head to toe—an even riskier situation if someone were to walk in on them. He didn’t seem to care, though, focusing solely on the blonde and the feeling that having him there in his arms, on his lips, and against his hips elicited.</p><p>Roger broke their kiss for the second time that moment, running his hand up his own chest and wrapping it around Brian’s, which found its way to the back of his neck. “You remember what to do?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.</p><p>It embarrassed the professor to admit that he did, and that he hadn’t lost practice since their time apart—on himself, of course—but with reddened cheeks, he answered, “Yeah, but...we don’t have any—”</p><p>“We don’t need it,” Roger smirked, dragging Brian’s hand across his jaw and to his mouth. With widened eyes, the professor watched as his fingers disappeared behind the younger man’s lips, his warm tongue dousing the digits in saliva. It took everything in Brian not to instantly draw his hand back, the natural alternative admittedly making him queasy, but he fought the urge and waited until Roger had sufficiently coated his fingers, the blonde taking it upon himself to release him and shimmy his pants and underwear to the ground.</p><p>“Ever done this standing up?” he questioned, earning a frustrated and impatient eye roll from the professor.</p><p>“Just turn around, Rog,” Brian muttered, arching the blonde’s eyebrow in surprise and compelling him to follow the professor’s command without a single word of defiance. He pressed his hands up against the reflective glass and spread his legs, his breaths appearing and fading from the surface as he anticipated the long overdue touch of the older man’s calloused fingers against his entrance.</p><p>Roger thought it would never come, but just as he turned his head over his shoulder—ready to snap at the professor to get on with it—he slipped his finger inside of him, punching out a moan so loud the blonde feared that the security guards down the way had heard him. He couldn’t help himself, though, the sensation hitting him harder than he’d expected and intensifying with each digit that was inserted into him. With Brian’s thumb being the only finger not inside of him, Roger knew he was more than ready, and in between the shallow pants for air, he stammered, “Just...Just fuck me already.”</p><p>“But you look so beautiful like this,” Brian whispered into his ear, the blonde’s eyes that had been closed finding their way to the mirror, where staring back at him was the reflection of a wrecked man—disheveled hair, slack jaw, lusty eyes—and behind him, the cause of it. It brought a smirk to his face, seeing the beauty in the fact that it was the two of them in the mirror and not him and Tim or him and some random client. No, this time it was him and someone he loved—someone who loved him back—and knowing that made him want it even more.</p><p>“Just fuck me, Brian,” he muttered, his smirk growing into an impatient grin. “Please.”</p><p>“Okay,” he murmured, matching the blonde’s facial expression before planting a quick, gentle kiss on his neck. “But only because you said please.” Roger had no time to think before the professor leaned back and replaced his fingers with his cock, sliding as far into Roger as he could and making him stifle back a cry of pleasure. “Is everything okay?” he asked, worrying that he’d hurt him.</p><p>“Yes, just...just stop talking and start...start moving,” Roger rattled off, inviting the older man to thrust his hips into him, his pace quickly building as the desire they tried to suppress for months was unleashed all at once. The lewd and repetitive slap of their skin filled the small dressing room, drowning out the grunts and groans that grew louder the nearer they became to reaching their climaxes.</p><p>The blonde suddenly dropped one of his hands from the mirror and wrapped it around his aching erection, pumping as fast he could to bring himself to the edge with Brian—feeling the professor getting close. It only took a few strokes before the tension let up, his hand and the bottom half of the mirror falling victim to his release while he fell victim to Brian’s. Their sticky bodies collapsed against the reflective surface as one, trying to catch their stolen breaths and sort out the scattered thoughts racing through their heads.</p><p>Brian lazily trailed his hand up Roger’s side, sending a faint tingle through the blonde’s body as he traced his fingers along his arm and down to his hand that still clung to the glass. The professor laced their fingers together and frowned, knowing that they couldn’t stay in that dressing room forever, and that the second they walked out, he’d have to face the reality he was hoping to avoid.</p><p>“I messed up again, Rog,” he mumbled, attracting the blonde’s lidded gaze.</p><p>“What’d you do this time?”</p><p>The professor bit his lip, giving Roger’s hand a slight squeeze before answering, “I made the wrong decision. I shouldn’t have gone back to Chrissie that day. I should’ve stayed with you.”</p><p>Roger chuckled. “Tell me something I don’t know.”</p><p>Though the blonde didn’t actually mean it, Brian took his response at face value and revealed bluntly, “Liz isn’t mine.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What do you mean Liz isn’t yours?” Roger snapped, shrugging the older man off his back and turning around to face him.</p><p>Brian immediately hung his head, shame bringing his gaze to the floor and his hands over his bare front. The confidence he entered the stall with had quickly dissolved into humiliation, the professor feeling like an absolute fool. “It’s just that...Chrissie said something the other night that made me think that...that...” His voice tapered off into silence—the truth too painful and embarrassing to repeat.</p><p>“...that she slept with someone else?” the blonde attempted to finish the professor’s fumbling sentence.</p><p>Brian’s head snapped up. “You really think so?” he croaked, not having dawned on that aspect of the situation before. However, when he looked back on the hypothetical Chrissie gave him—about them not being a family—it made perfect sense.</p><p>Thinking about Liz not being his but someone else’s twisted Brian’s stomach in knots, not only because he devoted so much of himself to raise her and support her mother, but because he pushed away the one person who made him feel good about himself to take care of the both of them. If she was someone else’s daughter, and Chrissie had done to him what she had done to Timothée, then everything he’d done would’ve been for nothing.</p><p>Roger scoffed at the professor’s naiveté and bent down to snatch his trousers up from the ground, sliding them back up his legs and answering, “Well she had to get knocked up somehow, Brian, and if it wasn’t with you—” he yanked his pants up over his waist and pulled the zipper up, “—it was with someone else.”</p><p>The professor pressed his lips together in deep thought, trying to figure out who else she could’ve been seeing at the time she conceived. He kept drawing a blank, though, unable to see past the headmistress’s explanation that it happened when they sneaked into the janitor’s office that one day. After all, they hadn’t used protection, and at the time, <em>he </em>was the one she was seeing in secret.</p><p>“I don’t think so, Roger,” Brian finally muttered, the blonde parting the curtain and peering out into the shop to make sure no one had come in while they were busy in the dressing room. “I used to be the other guy.” Roger returned his attention to the professor, the look in his baby blue eyes making him doubt himself and harbor a new concern. “You don’t think there was another guy, do you?”</p><p>The blonde heaved a sigh and pushed past him, replying as he gathered Brian’s clothes and handed them back to him, “I don’t know. ‘Could be. Once a cheater, always a cheater—right?”</p><p>Red flushed the professor’s cheeks as he grabbed his clothes and slipped back into them, following the blonde out of the dressing room and back over to the counter. Roger took his place back on the stool, throwing the guitar in his lap and plucking a few strings before shifting his focus to the magazine that was still open to the page he’d left off on. He couldn’t ignore Brian, though, as he leaned against the counter and buried his head in his folded arms.</p><p>“I don’t know what to do, Rog,” he groaned, standing back up and meeting the blonde’s indifferent gaze. “Liz is my entire life. I can’t just...she has to be...I-I gave up everything for her.”</p><p>Roger’s lip twitched upward as he closed the magazine and crossed his arms over his chest. “Since when am I everything?”</p><p>Brian’s blush grew deeper, a smile overcoming his lips as he tilted his head down once more. “You know what I mean,” he murmured bashfully.</p><p>“No, I don’t think I do,” the blonde teased, sitting forward with a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I think I’m going to need you to tell me...in detail...because a lot happened in New York, and what happened between us kind of got lost in the mix of things.”</p><p>“Oh, piss off,” the professor muttered, playfully punching Roger in the shoulder and turning away from the counter. He took in a deep breath and wove his fingers into his curly hair, pacing back and forth while the mocking grin on Roger’s face faded, the reality of the situation finally sinking in for him.</p><p>It wasn’t only Brian who Liz’s paternity affected; it affected Roger too, because had she not been the professor’s, he wouldn’t have felt responsible to stay behind and take care of her. They could’ve run away that night, and everything that happened while they were apart wouldn’t have happened. He wouldn’t have moved to another country; he wouldn’t have taken on two demeaning jobs; and he wouldn’t have stayed with Tim. The path that Roger took was forced upon him, and if he’d known that Chrissie was lying about who the father of her child was—something he honestly wouldn’t put past her—he could’ve had a real chance at being happy.</p><p>“That bitch,” Roger growled to himself, pounding his fist into the counter and stopping Brian dead in his tracks. His cheeks grew warm at the sudden attention he attracted, the blonde lowering his hand down into his lap and mumbling, “It’s just not fair that she lied to you.”</p><p>The professor chuckled under his breath, taking a seat on the opposite side of the stall and resting his head in his hand. “You’re telling me. My entire marriage is based on lies.” His eyes widened as he realized it wasn’t only Chrissie at fault. “Oh no.” His gaze flickered over to the blonde.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I’m just as much of a liar as she is,” he confessed, the seriousness in his voice eliciting an insuppressible laugh from the blonde. “This isn’t funny, Roger,” the professor conveyed, pushing himself out from the chair he’d fallen into and weaving his way through the racks of mismatched clothes. “Chrissie’s not the only one who lied in our relationship. I did too. I lied to her about you and me.”</p><p>“Brian, you not telling her about us isn’t lying,” the blonde sniggered. “You’d have to actually say something—”</p><p>“I did,” Brian cut him short, maintaining the blonde’s blank stare for a short while before shamefully dropping his elbows to the counter and hiding his face in the palms of his hands, explaining, “I told her I loved you, Roger. She knows about us.”</p><p>Roger swallowed the lump that formed in his throat—the revelation not entirely new to him. He’d figured it out the night before—or really, earlier that morning—thanks to Sting. What felt strange to him, though, was that he wasn’t shocked or scared by Chrissie knowing.</p><p>After all, what was there for her to do? She no longer had the hold over him that she did last year, with the opportunity she provided him with squandered and his slanderous connection to her ex-husband severed. Therefore, he had nothing to be afraid of. The worst she could do was manipulate Brian into staying with her, maybe by having another kid with him, but with the way the professor had fled to him this morning, Roger doubted the possibility.</p><p>What did scare him was what Brian said before that.</p><p>“You told her you loved me?” the blonde muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why the hell would you do that?”</p><p>The professor shrugged his shoulders, speaking into his hands as he answered, “I don’t know, Roger. It just came out.”</p><p>This wasn’t the first time those three words slipped past Brian’s lips, yet back then, they were exchanged only between the two of them. In that motel room, the professor muttered those words out of desperation, believing that was the last time he’d ever see the blonde or get the chance to tell him how he truly felt. Now, they’d been shared with someone else, manifesting after months of sitting deep inside him, buried beneath the web of lies he spun to convince himself that he’d made the right decision. With that belief being compromised, though, the truth came out, and it terrified Roger that—despite his claim—Brian was still the same guy he was a year ago—madly and helplessly in love with him.</p><p>“So, you didn’t mean it,” Roger murmured in an attempt to sway the situation in his favor, hoping to understand it better in terms he was most familiar with. “It just came out.”</p><p>“No, Roger, that’s not...it wasn’t...it wasn’t like that,” the professor stuttered, dropping his hands to counter—clasped together with fingers intertwined—and meeting Roger’s gaze with exhausted eyes. “I did mean it. I do love you; I never <em>stopped</em> loving you.”</p><p>The blonde bit his tongue, unable to say the same himself. Of course, he wanted to be with Brian, he had ever since they met last winter, but he didn’t know if it was because he felt the same way or because he was just enticed by the idea of a fresh start.</p><p>The first reason seemed unlikely, with the ability to love—to <em>truly </em>love—so far gone for the blonde that almost all his relationships—with Tim, with Cheryl, with Geoff, even with Freddie—had become routine, as though they were his job (and for some, it was). However, Roger couldn’t stand behind the latter explanation either, knowing that whatever was to become of Brian and him was bound to be more than just a “fresh start.” Becoming a music instructor at Imperial College was a “fresh start”; moving to America was a “fresh start”; joining Stewart’s band was a “fresh start.” Running off with Brian wasn’t, though.</p><p>It wasn’t a temporary fix like the others were. They’d become each other’s escapes; their way out of the bad situations they found themselves in; and being so close to the chance of actual happiness, of being loved by someone who had no intentions of abusing, manipulating, or hurting him like the last person who loved him did, the blonde didn’t know what to think. He wanted to believe he deserved it; he wanted to believe it wasn’t too good to be true, but with more than a decade of being told that all he deserved was Tim, he struggled to accept it.</p><p>“Never?” he repeated, the word coming out as a squeak and bringing a smile to Brian’s face.</p><p>“Not once,” the professor assured him, glancing back down at his hands and sighing. “You know, everything changed in my life since you left...except how I felt about you.” He smirked and returned his attention to the blonde. “There wasn’t a single thing I could do to forget that. I became a husband, a father, a music teacher...but none of that mattered because all I could think about was how you weren’t there by my side.”</p><p>Roger’s cheeks grew warm at Brian’s confession, but he remained silent, unwilling to let his guard down and admit that he couldn’t stop thinking about the professor either.</p><p>“It’s been a long year, Roger,” Brian continued, straightening his posture and adjusting the shirt he’d hastily thrown on, “and I don’t think I can handle another year like that, especially if Liz isn’t mine.”</p><p>“Well, you don’t know for sure, do you?” the blonde rattled off, his happy ending approaching too fast for comfort.</p><p>The professor grew pale as he stammered, “N-No.”</p><p>“Then there’s a chance she’s still yours, and if she is, Brian...you got to be there for her.” Roger awkwardly crossed his arms over his chest, noticing the professor’s furrowed brows and explaining, “Look, I just know what it’s like growing up without a parent, and...and it really messes with you. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone—not even Chrissie’s kid.”</p><p>“Hold on,” Brian cut in, matching the blonde’s stance and asking harshly, “Are you saying that I should stay with her?”</p><p>Fortifying those thick walls built around him, Roger bit his lip and muttered, “No, I just...I don’t want you telling Chrissie a year from now that you fucked up and chose wrong again.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?” the professor nearly shouted, the sudden appearance of a customer denying the blonde the chance to answer. Brian stuck around for a bit while the unsuspecting customer—or really, partially suspecting customer, for they kept eyeing the pair as they reluctantly perused the racks of hand-me-downs—moseyed about. It became increasingly clear, though, that he wasn’t going to get the answer he desired, with Roger reopening the magazine and skimming the pages once more.</p><p>No goodbyes were exchanged as Brian shoved his hands in his pockets and left the stall, stopping in the entryway to look back over his shoulder in hopes that Roger would try and stop him. However, all the blonde did was steal a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, staying in place and diverting his attention back to the magazine when he got caught.</p><p>The professor clenched his hands into fists and abandoned the small shop, disappointed that his distraction had only managed to take up an hour of the long day he had ahead of him and make him feel worse than he already felt about the situation he was in. Although Liz played a significant role in it, he hadn’t considered the long-term effect his leaving would have on her. No matter how much he wanted to be happy himself, Liz was still his everything, and the thought of taking her happiness away in order to attain his didn’t sit right with him.</p><p>As soon as Brian slipped inside his vehicle, he dropped his head to the steering wheel and groaned. His visit with Roger had the opposite effect he’d hoped for, giving him even more to think about. The entire ride home, all he could hear was Roger telling him, <em>I don’t want you telling Chrissie a year from now that you fucked up and chose wrong again.</em></p><p>He had no idea what he meant by that—that’s why he asked—but deep down, he did know. He knew that, in the grand scheme of things, he and Roger had only known each other for a short amount of time, and the only thing Roger knew about him in situations like this was that he sat on the fence, testing both options over and over again until the decision gets made for him—if it hadn’t been made already. Therefore, Roger had no reason to believe that Brian had the capability to make a choice himself and stick with it, which is why he could see history repeating itself and the professor crawling back to Chrissie; confessing to her the same things she confessed to him. Of course, Brian knew that wasn’t going to happen—his patience worn thin and his morals greatly tested—but what could he do to prove that to Roger?</p><p>*****</p><p>Chrissie heaved a sigh as she closed the book she was working in, sitting back in her chair and glancing at the clock on the wall. To say she’d been productive in any sense that day would be a lie. All she could think about was Brian and how quickly the façade she’d worked so hard to build had crumbled to pieces in a matter of days. It wasn’t what she wanted, but it was what she needed, and heaven knew she wouldn’t survive the repercussions if the truth were to be revealed—not only about him, but about her—<em>especially </em>about her.</p><p>Feeling like her office walls were closing in, Chrissie jumped up from her desk and broke out into the hallway flooded with students and faculty either headed to their next class or leaving for the day. Her eyes scanned the corridor, bouncing from one familiar face to the next until they landed on that infamous group of five. They were too engrossed in their own conversation and delinquency to notice, all except for one—John. He stared right back at her, with his arm wrapped around his girlfriend’s back and his hand on her hip, but his reddened cheeks belonged solely to the headmistress.</p><p>She turned her head in the opposite direction and joined the crowd, slipping downstairs and stopping by Brian’s classroom—the handwritten note that all his classes were canceled for the day infuriating her like nothing else. Without so much as a second thought, her hand shot out and ripped the paper from the door.</p><p>“Someone’s angry.”</p><p>Chrissie’s head snapped in the direction of the voice, her widened eyes falling upon none other than Ray’s replacement, leaned against the wall with his arms folded over his chest and a pair of sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“I’m not angry,” she mumbled, crumpling the sheet up.</p><p>He chuckled and slipped his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, and I’m not still hungover from last night.”</p><p>The headmistress resisted the smile that wanted to crawl onto her face, tilting her head down and advising, “It’s not professional to come to work hungover, Mr. Sumner.”</p><p>“Yeah, you should tell that to your husband,” Sting snickered, waltzing towards the headmistress and ducking down a bit to meet her diverted gaze. “Or did you? Because I noticed he wasn’t here today. Why is that?”</p><p>She distractedly played with the wrinkled ball of paper in her hands. “He said he wasn’t feeling well.”</p><p>“Oh really? He wasn’t feeling well.”</p><p>“That’s what he told me,” Chrissie bleakly replied, her fractured composure shattering when the interim professor placed a hand on her shoulder. She instinctively fell into his chest and allowed the tears she’d been holding back all day to roll freely down her cheeks, the typically frigid man warming up just enough to find some compassion within him to comfort her. He met the strange glances directed their way with a small nod of his head and the upward curl of his lips, letting the headmistress cry into his shirt until the halls were cleared and they were the only two lingering behind.</p><p>“Hey, now,” Ray’s replacement murmured, rubbing her upper arm in an attempt to calm her down. “It’s going to be okay.”</p><p>“No, it’s not, Gordon!” she sobbed, her hold on him growing tight. “He’s going to leave me! I know he is! I saw what he wrote!”</p><p>“Well, would that be such a bad thing? If he left you?” Sting dared to ask, his proposal separating the two of them almost instantly.</p><p>“Yes, yes it would be,” Chrissie answered tersely, swiping at her wet cheeks. “I already get enough weird looks from my colleagues because of what happened before. If this gets out, that he did the same thing to me that my last husband did, and that I...”</p><p>He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to finish her sentence. When all she did was stare at him, though, he tried to help her along by saying, “That you...”</p><p>“I just don’t know what I’m going to do, Gordon,” she conceded, crossing her arms and shaking her head. “I’ll never be respected again. All they’re going to see me as is—”</p><p>The headmistress and professor were so wrapped up in the former’s affairs that they hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps, and therefore were startled when a third voice joined the conversation. “Uh, Headmistress Mullen?”</p><p>As Chrissie spun around, her hand flew to her chest and her breath got caught in her throat. “John,” she gasped, Sting tilting his head to the side to get a better look at the lanky, shy student. “What...What do you want?”</p><p>“I-I was just wondering if you had a moment to talk...in private,” he answered, his gaze flickering over to the temporary women’s studies teacher who lowered his sunglasses—his narrowed, judgmental eyes arching the student’s brow. The professor hummed after he finished his assessment and leaned back against the wall, sending a chill down John’s back and allowing him to return his attention to the headmistress whose hands had found their way to her hips and whose gaze had shifted to her feet.</p><p>“I’m sorry, John, but now’s really not a good time,” she apologized, lifting her head ever so slightly to watch the blush staining his cheeks intensify.</p><p>He dropped his jaw to plead his case, but before he could utter a single word, his name echoed down the corridor. The three all turned towards the entrance, where the four girls he was often surrounded by stood, waiting for him in a straight, intimidating line. He heaved a sigh and begrudgingly excused himself, pushing through the headmistress and substitute professor and sulking down the hallway to join them. His head twitched as he fought the urge to look back, but he kept his back to the pair of faculty members as he approached his friends and left the school with them.</p><p>“What did you have to talk to her about?” Veronica asked as she hooked arms with him.</p><p>“Nothing, Ronnie,” he muttered, pulling her close and planting a kiss on her head. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>Chrissie and Sting watched as the double doors closed behind the group of five, the professor glancing over at the headmistress whose cheeks had grown just as red as the student’s. “Did something happen between the two of you?” he unapologetically blurted out, catching Chrissie off guard.</p><p>“What? No!” She chuckled anxiously, crossing her arms and eyeing her colleague suspiciously, worried he figured out something he wasn’t supposed to. “Why would you even say that? That’s crazy.” Her gaze traveled back to the entrance, seemingly in a trance as she repeated, “That’s crazy...”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“About time you showed up,” Roger grumbled as Freddie dragged himself into the stall the two of them again shared, looking more defeated than the blonde did on his walks of shame following his appointments with his clients. “I’ve been waiting hours for you. Where on earth have you been?”</p><p>“In hell,” the dark-haired man bit back, throwing his jacket down on the counter and joining his friend’s side. He leaned over the countertop and buried his face in his folded arms, similar to how Brian had not too long ago. “Mary dragged me round all day to all these different little shops, forcing me to pick out flowers and centerpieces and cakes and bridesmaids’ dresses and everything in between for our stupid wedding, complaining we were running out of time. We’ve got all the time in the damn world!”</p><p>The blonde smirked at his friend’s dilemma, knowing that the simple solution would be to call off the engagement and admit to her that he wasn’t attracted to her anymore. Roger offered on countless occasions to say it for him, but Freddie would always shake his head and tell him it just wasn’t the right time. There would never be a right time, though, because despite him finding it more and more difficult to reciprocate the love that Mary felt for him, she was still the love of his life, and the thought of losing her forever seemed more unbearable than keeping her around whilst living a lie. After all, things weren’t <em>that </em>bad, and it wasn’t like their relationship inhibited him from exploring and enjoying his true sexuality.</p><p>“I swear, if I have to taste another fucking piece of cake, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind,” he groaned, straightening his posture and letting out a sigh. “I just don’t understand why she’s so eager to get married. It’s not like it’s going to change anything. It’s just going to make things more complicated.”</p><p>Roger chuckled. “Why do you think I said no when Tim asked me to marry him?”</p><p>“Because he’s a terrible person and we all know you deserve someone better,” Freddie answered, the seriousness in his tone instantly wiping the grin from the blonde’s face. “What? You know I’m right.”</p><p>“Well, at least my relationship’s <em>real </em>and not <em>pretend </em>like yours,” he shot back childishly, the dark-haired man’s eyes widening with rage.</p><p>“You take that back,” Freddie growled, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. Roger shook his head in defiance, prompting the dark-haired man to throw his hands on his hips and stomp his foot. “Roger Meddows Taylor, I demand you take that back right now!” he shouted as quietly as he could manage, which wasn’t very quiet at all.</p><p><em>“What? You know I’m right</em>,” Roger repeated slyly with a growing smile, slipping out from behind the counter and snagging his friend’s jacket along the way. He spun around and—too busy sticking his arms through the sleeves and tugging at the garment to shrug it over his shoulders—hadn’t noticed the last-minute customer who appeared in the entrance. Instead, Roger noticed the new expression that washed over his friend’s face. His eyes remained twice the size they should have been, but instead of being reddened by anger, his face had grown pale—as though he’d seen a ghost. For all the blonde knew, he had.</p><p>“What are you—” Roger began to ask, the rest of his question laid to waste as he turned around and saw the sight for himself.</p><p>The blonde felt his chest drop into his stomach, and if he’d been carrying his guitar, it would’ve dropped to the floor and broke in half. Luckily, he was empty handed, and the guitar he’d borrowed from Sting was safe another day. He, on the other hand, wasn’t.</p><p>“How did I know you’d be here?” the unexpected visitor sneered, entering the stall with a slow prowl, hands clasped behind their back and chest puffed out.</p><p>“T-Tim,” Roger stammered nervously, the distance between him and boyfriend shrinking. “W-What a surprise to see you. When did you—”</p><p>“Get here?” the brunette cut him short, an evil laugh emanating from the back of his throat. “This morning. ‘Bought myself a plane ticket right after I hung up on you—you know, after you told me you were sorry and that you messed up.” He brought his hand up and tucked a piece of Roger’s hair behind his ear, the blonde flinching at the gesture. “You should’ve listened to me, Roger. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you—”</p><p>“Oh no,” Freddie interjected, robbing the blonde the chance to respond and stealing the brunette’s attention away from him as he strutted out from behind the counter. “No, no, no, no, no. No, you are not going to come into my...<em>our</em> store and pull your usual shit, Tim.” He draped an arm around his friend and pulled him into his side, the color draining from Roger’s face and filling Freddie’s. “I won’t have it.”</p><p>“Don’t you have some guy to suck off, Fred?” the brunette grumbled, ripping the sunglasses off his face and tucking them inside his coat pocket. The dark-haired man gasped indignantly, his free hand flying to his chest and his lips parting in preparation to defend himself—only Roger stopped him, raising his hand and holding it up to Freddie’s chest.</p><p>“Don’t,” the blonde warned under his breath, looking over to meet his friend’s fiery gaze. “You promised.” He could tell Freddie had had enough of Tim, as had he, but only the latter was willing to continue putting up with it. If Freddie had his way, Tim would’ve been out of the picture a long time ago. He hadn’t liked the man from the start, seeing instantly what Roger couldn’t.</p><p>Freddie had spent many sleepless nights wondering why Roger was so blind to the way Tim treated him, but as time went on and Roger and Freddie grew closer, the dark-haired man realized that Roger was acutely aware of his situation; that he <em>chose </em>to ignore the red flags that anyone and everyone could see from miles away. When he asked the blonde why, Roger started by saying, “because I love him,” but after being stared down by a narrow set of unconvinced eyes, he changed his answer to, “I need him,” which eventually evolved into a frustrated, “you just don’t get it” and “you have to promise me you won’t do anything.” Freddie regretted making that promise, witnessing firsthand how worse the blonde’s situation became after they shook on it.</p><p>“But—” he tried to argue, the words that wanted to follow swallowed by the silence that the admonitory shake of Roger’s head elicited. Freddie clenched his jaw and shoved his index finger in the blonde’s face, growling, “Fine, I’ll go, but if he’s still here when I get back—” he redirected his finger in the direction of the brunette whose brow had arched in contempt but kept his eyes on the blonde, “—you’re both going to be in big trouble.”</p><p>“Ooh, I’m <em>so </em>scared,” Tim sneered, comically waving his hands.</p><p>“You should be,” the dark-haired man snapped, his head whipping around to meet the brunette’s narrowed gaze. Tim folded his arms over his chest, unthreatened as Freddie broke away from Roger’s side and brushed shoulders with him, the harsh blow intentional—as revealed by the glance that Freddie sent back before walking out of the stall.</p><p>An awkward silence blanketed over the deserted pair, disturbed only by the sounds of distant conversations and the song of cash registers whose melody echoed through the Market in canons. Roger heaved a sigh and stuffed his hands into the jacket pockets, knowing Tim wasn’t going to be the first one to speak—despite that being the reason he’d hopped on the next plane to London and flew back home to find him. What he intended to do after that, though, Roger wasn’t sure.</p><p>“Tim, why the hell are you here?” the blonde finally muttered, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. Where that disappointment came from, he couldn’t decide. Was it because his boyfriend had suddenly shown up out of the blue, or was it because things with Brian this morning had taken a catastrophic turn for the worst? Either way, the origins of his frustration mattered not, with Tim basking in the glory of knowing his arrival had unsettled his boyfriend and kick-started what would he believed to be their destined reunion. After all, the two had known each other for ten years; Tim knew just what to do to get Roger back in his arms.</p><p>“I came here to fix your little problem,” he answered with an arrogance that Roger once found charming. Now it disgusted him, twisting his stomach in knots.</p><p>“And what problem is that?” Roger entertained, matching his boyfriend’s crossed-arms stance to show that he wasn’t going to stand down easily. He meant it when he said that he wasn’t worried about what tricks Tim had tucked inside his sleeve, but he also said that when Tim was still in New York. Now that he was here, that bravery required a certain amount of effort from the blonde that wasn’t necessary when there was an ocean between them; an effort he tried to conceal with purposeful body language and sarcasm.</p><p>“Oh, so we’re playing <em>that </em>game, are we,” Tim replied, derision lacing his voice as he stalked towards the blonde, his poignant gaze unrelenting. The brunette allowed for no space between him and Roger, standing toe-to-toe with him with their rising and falling chests nearly touching and their breaths intertwined. “Okay, then. You want to know what your problem is?” The lack of alcohol on Tim’s breath shocked his boyfriend, but it also scared him, because it meant that he was speaking with a sober mind—something he hadn’t done in years. “Your problem is that you’ve always thought that you’re better than me; that...that you can outsmart me and do all these things behind my back because I’m too stupid to know any better. But you’re wrong, Roger. I’ve always known—<em>always</em>.”</p><p>The blonde chuckled in disbelief. “What are you even talking about?”</p><p>“Brian!” he screamed, sending Roger stumbling back into the counter that caught him with a painful nudge to his lower back. “I’m talking about Brian! And Stewart! And Geoff!” He took in a deep breath and pushed his fingers through his hair, blinking away the angry tears that surfaced. He played over this conversation in his head so many times while in the air, crossing the Atlantic that he’d only traveled over once before—when he and Roger moved to America. Not in one iteration of the conversation was he crying. “I know what you’re doing with them, Roger, and...and it’s not fair.”</p><p>“It’s not <em>fair</em>?” the blonde repeated incredulously.</p><p>“You know I need you!” Tim cried, Roger starting to wonder what had happened in the short time they’d been separated. Had he lost his mind? Had he finally cracked?</p><p>“I’ve needed you since the second we met,” the brunette murmured, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other before hanging his head and hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants. “And...And I know you don’t need me anymore—you’ve made that very clear—but I’m begging you, Roger.” His red eyes glistening with desperation dared to meet the blonde’s. “Don’t do this.”</p><p>Roger pressed his lips together tightly, trying his hardest to resist the pull he felt to comfort Tim; to be the problem-solver that he’d always been and draw him into his arms, let him cry into his shoulder, and assure him that everything would be okay—that he’d go back home with him or share his spot on Freddie and Mary’s couch until they find another place in London to stay. However, he couldn’t ignore the nagging desire he had to make things right with Brian—the stain on the mirror in the dressing room reminding him of what could be if he just learned to let go of his past. It was difficult, though, when his past and his present collided, tugging him in two different directions with no intention of letting up anytime soon.</p><p>“Please,” the brunette croaked, his eyes red with desperation. “Don’t do this.”</p><p>The blonde scoffed. “Then what do you want me to do, Tim? Go back to America with you and help you run your...your sex business over the phone?” The brunette stared blankly at him, neither nodding nor shaking his head and encouraging Roger to rebut, “Because I don’t want that! I never did, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t either!”</p><p>“No, I just want <em>you</em>!” he screamed, earning the attention of some passersby. The couple didn’t seem to care, though, too wrapped up in their own world to acknowledge the one around them. It was as though they were the only two people in the Market; in London; in Europe. Nothing else mattered in that moment except for Tim and Roger and their relationship. Tim heaved a sigh and covered his face with his hands, hiding behind his palms and fingers and explaining, “I just want things to be the way they used to be, before all this happened. We were so happy before Brian...before Timothée.”</p><p>Roger took a deep breath and moved his hands to his hips, admitting, “That, we were.”</p><p>Tim dropped his hands to his sides and met his boyfriend’s gaze once more, asking defeatedly, “Then why can’t we go back to that? Just forget about everything and start over, just the two of us.”</p><p>“We already tried that, Tim,” the blonde reminded him, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not going to work. It just isn’t.”</p><p>Tears wavered in the brunette’s eyes for a quick second, but when he sniffled, straightening his posture, the droplets disappeared and were replaced with something else; something that Roger couldn’t identify before Tim turned on his heel and stormed out of the shop, grabbing onto one of the racks near the entrance and bringing it to the ground in a fit of suppressed rage. He didn’t dare look back as he brushed shoulders with Freddie, the harsh blow nearly spilling the man’s cup of tea. The dark-haired man possessed no such willpower and craned his neck to watch the brunette throw open the Market doors and walk out. Unlike Roger, he’d seen what was in Tim’s eyes; it was determination, but a determination like he’d never seen before in the brunette, and that worried him.</p><p>“What the hell happened while I was gone?” Freddie chided Roger as he entered their stall, taking a casual sip of the hot beverage and standing over the blonde.</p><p>Roger glared at him from his hands and knees and threw the handful of clothes he picked up into the center of the toppled rack. “I don’t want to talk about it, Fred.”</p><p>Freddie couldn’t hold back the frown that curled his lips downward, hearing those words before and knowing what they meant. “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re going back to him.” He set the paper cup down on the floor and took a seat beside his friend. “You finally got away from him; you can’t go running back now.”</p><p>“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” the blonde repeated himself, his voice low and stern as he continued tossing the discarded garments into the pile he created—doing nothing to get the rack back up and standing. Freddie wasn’t of much help either, opting instead to keep his hurting friend company while sipping his tea and stealing quick glances at him in hopes that one of them might be returned. They weren’t, though, and the two went back to Freddie’s house in silence that night—the conversation never to be revisited.</p><p>*****</p><p>The rest of the day dragged painfully for both the professor and the former music instructor. Their minds and bodies were restless, pacing back and forth and mulling over different concerns that affected the same thing.</p><p>Roger couldn’t say that he wasn’t worried anymore. He hadn’t realized it before, blinded by the prospects that lured him back home, but the distance he created between him and his boyfriend was more unnerving than he’d originally thought. He didn’t know where Tim was, who he was with, or what he was doing, and that’s what he feared most of all. The brunette was unpredictably predictable, which meant that Roger always had an inclination as to whatever Tim intended to do—make cash fast, move far away, win him back—but it was his execution that always threw Roger for a loop. The blonde could only imagine what Tim had planned this time, and each idea he came up with was worse than the last.</p><p>As for Brian, he spent what little time he had before Chrissie returned home with Liz chipping away at the song he’d been working on. It was the only way he could process the thoughts racing through his mind, sorting them out on paper and hoping the words would somehow arrange themselves into the answer he desperately needed. He had a feeling that his chance with Roger was fleeting, and that he only had a short amount of time to prove to him that he wouldn’t regret his decision; that choosing him <em>would</em> be the right choice, now and always. He just didn’t know how.</p><p>When the professor’s wife walked in through the front door much later than normal, her daughter sitting on her hip, she found her husband on the living room floor, his back against their couch as he strummed at his guitar and tested out different chord patterns. It was clear to her that he’d burned himself out, with each combination of chords worse than the last, but Brian was determined to finish this song if it was the last thing he did. He was so deep in his own headspace that Chrissie’s presence only became known to him when she shut—more so slammed—the door behind her.</p><p>“Oh, h-hey,” he stammered, setting his guitar aside and picking himself up off the ground. As he wiped the back of his pants instinctively, he added with rosy cheeks, “I didn’t hear you come in.”</p><p>“I know,” she replied, her voice flat. An awkward pause filled the conversation, the two adults not knowing what to say to one another. It was strange, their inability to converse with one another like they used to. Before, when they first started getting to know one another, the topics of conversation were endless. They couldn’t wait till their breaks in the day to see each other again and pick up right where they left off. Now they dreaded those breaks, and today had been their longest one yet with the professor avoiding the university at all costs.</p><p>It seemed as though the both of them were prepared to walk away from the situation with that small, impersonal, dissatisfying exchange when the headmistress blurted out, “You left your notebook out last night.”</p><p>He scratched the back of his head. “Did I?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she lied, using his lapse in memory to her advantage to keep him from finding out the truth—that he’d actually fallen asleep on it, and she’d pulled it out from underneath him. She bit her lip and tacked on hesitantly, “I saw what you wrote.”</p><p>“You—” Brian began, his voice cracking to a higher, embarrassing pitch. His eyes widened but for a short second before he blinked them back to their normal size, cleared his throat, and tried again to speak. “You did?” he asked, his voice dropped lower than normal.</p><p>Chrissie nodded her head, adjusting her grip on Liz.</p><p>The professor swallowed the uncomfortable lump that formed in his throat, hoping that Chrissie would hold onto Liz forever. He knew the baby girl was the only thing protecting him from her mother’s wrath. There was no wrath to be had, though, for Chrissie was no longer angry. It wouldn’t be fair for her to be angry, especially after the afternoon she had.</p><p>
  <em>The headmistress and the newest addition to the staff at Imperial College soaked in the silence that blanketed over the abandoned corridor after John and the girls walked out. Chrissie felt the judgmental daggers Sting shot out of the corner of his eyes, but she chose to ignore them, clearing her throat and announcing that she should be on her way; that she had to pick up her daughter from her mother-in-law. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Let me walk you out,” the blonde replied, whipping out a pack of cigarettes from the leather messenger bag that hung by his hip and pinching one of the white sticks in the corner of his lips. He swapped the pack for a lighter and brought the flame up to the cigarette, igniting the end and breathing in deeply. The headmistress didn’t even seem to care, her own matters taking preference over her colleague’s blatant disregard of policy. Not to mention that any reprimands she would give would come off as hypocritical, with Chrissie having violated the rules just the other day. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sting blew a steady, smoky stream out to the side and explained, “My ride should be here any moment.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Okay, fine,” she muttered, running an anxious hand through her hair. “I just need to stop back at my office and get my things.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’ll be here,” he told her with an alluring air of nonchalance, taking another drag from the cigarette.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It didn’t take long for the headmistress to run up to her office and back, but when she returned, she was surprised to find that the interim professor’s ride had joined him. She was even more surprised that she knew his ride personally.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Stewart?” she couldn’t help but ask, attracting the taller man’s attention.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Chrissie?” he gasped, breaking away from his friend’s side and gravitating towards the headmistress. An invisible force drew her to him too, eliminating the distance between them so much so that their toes almost touched. They gazed into one another’s eyes like they hadn’t seen each other in eternity, and their lips twitched with unbridled excitement as they tried to resist the grins that longed to appear on their faces.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You two know each other?” Sting interjected, breaking the pair out of the stupor they’d lost themselves in.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, we go way back,” Stewart answered him, a blush rising in his cheeks as he glanced back at the headmistress. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Chrissie allowed a small smile to crawl across her lips, still in the trance that had been cast upon her when she echoed, “Yeah, way back.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The women’s studies professor wasn’t an idiot. He could see the lustful desire raging between the two, aware that the only thing preventing them from running off and acting on the urges that overcame them the second they laid eyes on one another was him. With that knowledge, Sting hummed, inhaled another breath laced with nicotine, and told Stewart that he’d be waiting in the car. He doubted the other blonde had even heard him, but if worst came to worst, Sting knew he could always hitch a ride from any one of the women on campus. One look in their direction and they’d be handing their keys over to him, hoping he’d keep them.</em>
</p><p><em>With the temporary professor outside, the hallway was once again left with only two—the headmistress and her secret lover. The tension in the air grew thick as the conversation they had the night before replayed in Chrissie’s mind. She never imagined that she’d be seeing him again this soon; in fact, despite the undeniable attraction she felt towards him—had </em>always <em>felt towards him—she worked hard to forget about it, knowing that her choice had already been made but wanting to see if somehow things with Brian could be salvaged. </em></p><p>
  <em>She needed him, and part of her felt like he needed her too, for the sake of image. Maybe they could work something out, perhaps an unorthodox arrangement since they’d both fallen for other people—or in Chrissie’s case, had always been in love with someone else—but now that Stewart was here, standing in front of her, just a breath away, Brian was the last thing on the headmistress’s mind. All she could think about was Stewart, and how it had been so long since the last time they saw each other.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Chrissie draped her arms around Stewart’s shoulders and brought him down to her level, capturing his lips with hers and realizing how much she’d missed the taste—a taste her parents would punish her for reveling in. Nevertheless, she persisted, and the drummer melted into the moment, snaking his hands around her waist and drawing her in. Their bodies pressed up against one another’s, stumbling backwards into Brian’s classroom door. When the headmistress slammed into it, her surroundings suddenly returned to her and she pulled herself away from him with a gasp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What, are you afraid someone’s going to see us?” Stewart teased, unfamiliar with Chrissie’s new position of authority and the responsibilities that came with the title. It had been over five years since the two of them crossed paths, and so her job at the university was a surprise to him. The last he knew, she was trying to make it as a model and worked at a small, grimy, hole-in-the-wall diner. He was completely unaware of her enigmatically acquired status at the university, and of the family she formed over the past year. They met up so far and few and often so quickly that these details were glossed over, exchanged for silence as they spent what little time they had making up for lost time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Let’s just find somewhere else to do this,” she suggested anxiously, her worried eyes flickering left to right in search of a loitering student or colleague. She knew it was the end of the day and that most people had either retreated to their dorms or were holed up in a classroom, watching the clock tick slowly by, but her self-consciousness got the best of her.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Why not right here?” the tall blonde suggested, his voice low as he plucked a hand from her back and wrapped it around the doorknob beside her hip. She was so taken aback by the suave gesture that she put up no resistance as they slipped into her husband’s classroom and collided with his desk, Stewart lifting Chrissie up onto its edge and taking her mouth with his. Without breaking away, he began to work at her underwear, and before either of them knew it, they clung to each other breathlessly, wishing the moment never had to end.</em>
</p><p>“Chrissie, I—” Brian tried to explain to her, but the look on her face said it all: She wasn’t looking for an apology, nor was she looking for an explanation. She saw what she saw, and she’d come to understand what it meant. No more was she the blissfully ignorant headmistress who would let her husband walk all over her, and she’d be damned to let history repeat itself twice. The professor recognized her desire to deal with this differently and so stopped himself before he let out another word, letting her take control of the situation. Besides, he’d already done enough damage.</p><p>Chrissie took in a deep breath and let it out slowly before saying, “Look, Brian, I just need you to promise me that you won’t do anything. You can like him all you want, I don’t care, but leave it to those words on the page, okay? That’s all I ask. Don’t be like Timothée. <em>Please</em>, don’t be like Timothée.”</p><p>Little did the professor know that what she really wanted to say was <em>don’t be like me</em>.</p><p>And little did <em>she</em> know that he already was.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Look,” Brian sighed. “I don’t like where we left things, and I want to make it up to you.” He shifted uncomfortably, racking his brain for the best way to articulate what he wanted to say. “There’s a concert this weekend and I was thinking—”</p><p>“Who are you talking to?”</p><p>The professor’s head snapped to the right, where he saw Chrissie standing in the doorway of their bathroom. She leaned against the threshold with her hair messily clipped back and a robe draped over her shoulders, the garment that barely touched the top of her knees cinched loosely at her waist. It was late at night, almost the next day, but neither of them could fall asleep. They had too much to think about; too many decisions to make.</p><p>“Uh, no one,” he rattled off, his cheeks burning in embarrassment and his heart pounding against his rib cage. The rhythm was so intense, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Chrissie could hear it too.</p><p>“No one?” the headmistress repeated in disbelief.</p><p>Brian nodded his head in agreement, clinging to the sides of the sink and tapping his foot as he awkwardly waited for his wife to leave the room so he could resume practicing his speech. Speech wasn’t the right word for it, though. It was more so an appeal he was preparing, a proposal of sorts, and he knew he only had one chance to get it right.</p><p>“I heard you say you don’t like where we left things,” the headmistress murmured, peeling herself away from the threshold and entering the small room. She joined Brian’s side, scanning him up and down before turning her attention to his reflection in the mirror. She dared to wrap her hands around his upper arm and rest her cheek against his shoulder, confessing, “I feel the same way.”</p><p>If it wasn't for the tears that began to glisten in Chrissie's eyes, Brian would've told her that it wasn't the two of them he was referring to just moments ago, but him and Roger. However, he knew that look, and he knew what that look would turn into if he decided to be honest with her. So, for her sake—and his—he kept his lips sealed.</p><p>“How did we get here, Brian?” she whispered, nuzzling up against him—an action that, just a year ago, would’ve sent tingles down the professor’s spine. Now it elicited a sense of unease, the affectionate gesture making Brian wish she would’ve just left his talking to himself alone, rather than analyzing it and believing that what was on his mind pertained to them. “Hmm?” she hummed when her husband remained silent.</p><p>“I-I don’t know, Chrissie,” he mumbled, his grip on the porcelain growing tighter. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“Do you think we can ever go back?” the headmistress wondered aloud, breaking her gaze away from the reflective surface and averting it up to the professor’s that took a similar path. “You know, to the way things used to be?” She plucked one of her hands from his arm and began to trace it on his chest, watching her finger move along arbitrary lines. Brian watched with her, his brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what she was doing; why she was suddenly acting so strange, when earlier she couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him. What transpired that changed her mind?</p><p>The headmistress returned her attention to him and continued, “I remember when we could talk to each other for hours; when we couldn’t wait till we were alone, so we could tear off each other’s clothes and do what we’d been thinking about doing all...” her hand trailed further down his torso, “...day...” passed over his navel, “...long,” and landed on the front of his pants.</p><p>Brian couldn’t help himself, his body reacting in a way that his mind didn’t want to. He gathered enough sense, though, to separate the two of them and ask, “What the hell are you doing, Chrissie?”</p><p>“I’m just trying to make things right!” she cried, her seductive approach being thrown out the window and replaced by one of defense. “For fuck’s sake, Brian, I can’t be the only one here who hates what we’re doing—lying to each other; pretending to be happy when we’re not. I don’t want to lie to you anymore, and I want to be happy with you...<em>actually</em> happy, not just to keep up appearances.” She grabbed at her hand and twisted the small ring off her finger, holding it up and mumbling, “We’re married, Brian. We made a promise to each other. To have and to hold from this day forward—”</p><p>“For better, for worse,” the professor chimed in dejectedly, hanging his head.</p><p>“For richer, for poorer,” the headmistress picked up.</p><p>“In sickness and in health—”</p><p>“Until death do us part,” Chrissie finished, her voice barely above a whisper as she shoved the ring back in its place. “Brian, you’re the only person I said those words to and actually meant it.”</p><p>The professor scoffed. “Yeah, but that’s only because you couldn’t say them to—”</p><p>He didn’t even have to say his name for Chrissie to know it was Stewart that he was talking about. “I love him, Brian,” she confessed with a sigh, “but I can’t rely on him like I do you. I need <em>you</em>.” She took a step forward and wrapped his hands in hers, attracting his reluctant gaze and asking, “I know it won’t be easy, but can we please stop letting our feelings for other people get in the way of us being together? Those people...they’re things of our past. We have a daughter to raise now—"</p><p>“But, Chrissie, she’s not even mine!” Brian blurted out, the thought rolling off the tip of his tongue before he could even have the chance to think about what he was saying. The headmistress instantly retracted her hands and jumped back—her eyes wide with terror.</p><p>“W-What do you mean she’s not yours? Of course, she’s yours!”</p><p>“Then why would you have brought up that whole thing about us not being a family?” he asked, the red in his cheeks growing darker as he continued to respond without control over what he said. The headmistress began to blush herself, pressing her lips together in resistance to answering his question honestly. “I mean, Chrissie, you can’t just say something like that and not expect me to think that—”</p><p>“All I meant when I said that was me thinking about what would happen if...if we broke up,” she tried to convince him, lying through the skin of her teeth. Chrissie was a master at that, lying on the spot. It was the only way she could lead the life she wanted to under her parents’ conservative noses, and even though she’d moved on and out long ago, old habits die hard. “I just thought that, with everything that happened, we were going to get a divorce, and I started thinking about raising Liz on my own, and I just...I don’t think I can do it alone. I don’t <em>want </em>to do it alone. I want to do it with you.” The last sentence came out as a whisper, spoken so softly that it was a miracle Brian caught it.</p><p>The professor tipped his head down to hide the tears that started to waver in his eyes. He couldn’t deny his love for that little girl, even after knowing she might not be his. Sure, she might have only been a few months old, but those few months brightened Brian’s world like no other. In all the obstacles that were thrown his way, he could always count on seeing her bubbly face after a long day at work, and hearing her infectious giggle when he tried to bathe or dress her, and rocking her to sleep in her dark room while telling her softly all the things he couldn’t tell anyone else, and having her listen without any judgment.</p><p>He loved her, and leaving her behind was something he hadn’t thought about when he decided to try and run away with Roger for the second time. He’d only thought about how he was going to bring it up, and what he would do if—<em>when </em>Roger said yes, for he wasn’t willing to take no for an answer. It was clear that what the two men wanted was each other, but something seemed to always get in the way. First it was Tim, then it was Chrissie, and now Liz. The poor professor could never catch a break.</p><p>“I love you, Brian,” Chrissie muttered, hoping it might encourage a change of heart. “And I know things have been tough, but we can get through this, right?” She dared to place a hand on his upper arm and give it a slight squeeze, repeating with a choked throat, “Right?”</p><p>*****</p><p>Roger knew he should’ve pushed aside his concerns about Tim and focused on getting his guitar parts down for the concert this weekend, but he couldn’t stop thinking about what the brunette was up to. There was no way Tim was just going to walk away that easily, no way.</p><p>There was a fight to be had, Roger knew it. He just didn’t know when or where or how it would happen, and that not knowing shook him to his very core. Not only did he fear what Tim might do to him, but he worried about what he might also do to Brian, to Freddie, maybe even to Stewart and Sting, all because he was honest and had been heard for the first time in a long time; perhaps in forever.</p><p>The blonde knew he needed to get to his boyfriend before anything bad happened, and so when dawn broke, he left Freddie’s house and set out strolling around the streets of London, using his familiarity with the locations he and Tim used to frequent as possible places where the former might have fled to. By the time noon rolled around, though, Roger had visited most of their favorite spots, but to no avail. He saw a lot of familiar faces that were glad to see him back, but not a single one of them belonged to Tim. Nobody had seen the brunette either, following their confession up with the question, “Why isn’t he with you?” Roger began to ask himself the same thing, letting that nagging feeling that he’d made another mistake get under his skin. Thankfully, there was one last place he had yet to try—Nana’s.</p><p>Roger was surprised he remembered where she lived, having only been there once before, and even then, he’d only got as far as the driveway. He remembered looking up at the palace-like mansion when he was just a little over twenty years old—a couple years after Tim got the genius idea to prostitute Roger out as a woman—and wondering why Tim hadn’t tried to move in with her to get away from his father.</p><p>With an assumed surplus of bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens, studies, and rooms that had no purpose, the boy could’ve lived like a prince, in luxury, and wouldn’t have had to pimp his boyfriend to make ends barely meet. Hell, Roger could have probably stayed there too. Sure, he’d have to go by Liz and wear girls’ clothes all the time, but it seemed like a small price to pay for a stable roof over their heads and adequate meals on the table every night that didn’t consist of cheap cigarettes, warm bottles of beer, and whatever Tim could stuff in his pockets at the corner shop without getting noticed.</p><p>The house looked just as it did when Roger first visited it, looming over him like a castle he wasn’t allowed in. Who could blame him for feeling that way when he had to climb the gate just to get in?</p><p>The blonde took in a deep breath and gathered enough courage to approach the front door, grabbing the knocker and pounding it against the heavy door three times. He took a cautious step back and waited to hear the footsteps that would let him know his presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. When all he heard was silence, though—for the house, if it could even be considered as such, was so far outside of London that no bumper-to-bumper traffic, no blaring car horns, no construction, and no drunkards stumbling over their words and their feet could be heard—he stepped forward again and gave another three knocks. These three seemed to do the trick, because right after he made contact with the door for the last time, he heard faint bickering.</p><p><em>Tim</em>, he immediately thought, a wave of relief washing over him while at the same time sending his beating heart into overdrive.</p><p>However, much to Roger’s dismay, it wasn’t Tim who Nana had been bickering with, but rather another man, much younger than her and about ten years older than her grandson. The blonde’s eyes widened in surprise, while the man who stood across from him inside the home seemed unbothered by the situation.</p><p>“Can I help you?” he asked, folding his arms over the soft, plush, white robe that covered his bare body and raising an eyebrow behind the circular, thin framed glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“I-I was wondering if Nana was here,” Roger stammered, tripped up by the unexpected answerer who didn’t seem to know who he was talking about. Luckily, the blonde didn’t have to explain himself, saved by a gasp that sounded from somewhere nearby in the house.</p><p>High heels clicked hastily across the marble floors and stopped at the front door that swung open fully to reveal the old woman that somehow managed to remember Roger in her state of growing dementia. “Oh, I knew you’d come here!” she exclaimed, jumping into Roger’s arms and squeezing him tight. She planted a wet kiss on his cheek and leaned back, looking at his face and beaming, “I told him you’d find him here. He didn’t believe me! Granted, I don’t think he even believed he came to the right place...”</p><p>“Tim? He’s here?” Roger asked, though there wasn’t anyone else she could’ve been referring to.</p><p>“Oh, yes, darling. He stumbled in last night.” She wrapped her bony hand around Roger’s and pulled him inside the house, ordering her guest to close the door behind them and start the tea. The blonde couldn’t take his eyes off of the man as he walked off to do as she said. Part of him wanted to believe that he was dreaming; that he’d never left Freddie’s house and was still lying on his and Mary’s couch, but with Nana dragging him along, her grip growing tighter with each step as if she was about to lose him, it felt too real to be a dream. “He said you two had a fight,” Nana blurted out, attracting Roger’s scattered attention. “I hope everything’s okay.”</p><p>“I don’t know, Nana,” Roger admitted, once again distracted by the extravagance of the inside of her home. Vaulted ceilings, priceless artwork, exotic plants—this woman had it all. It made him wonder how her son came to live so poorly, and her grandson even worse. He was brought back down to reality when he tripped on the steps she wanted to take him up, shaking his head and adding on, “We were just talking and he stormed out on me. Has he said anything to you?”</p><p>He doubted the older, delirious woman would have remembered anything Tim had said to her, but he thought it was worth asking; perhaps give him some insight as to what Tim had in store. Unfortunately, the insight she had wasn’t very helpful. “No, he didn’t say a word to me. He just showed up at my doorstep, pissed beyond belief. He could barely stand, poor thing.” The pair reached the top of the steps and switched from holding to hands to hooking their arms, headed down the long hallway whose décor and aesthetic matched the rest of the house. “Luckily, Johnny was here to bring him in,” Nana tacked on. “I couldn’t have done it myself.”</p><p> “Johnny, huh?” Roger repeated with a disbelieving smirk.</p><p>She nodded her head, glancing up at the blonde out of the corner of her eyes. “He’s famous, you know.”</p><p>“Of course I know, Nana, he’s a fucking Bea—”</p><p>They reached the room before Roger could finish his sentence, stopping the blonde dead in his tracks when he saw Tim sprawled out across the oversized bed, half his limbs dangling over the side and a puddle of drool accumulated beneath his cheek. The brunette looked so innocent then, like he hadn’t spent the rest of his day yesterday plotting his revenge over an endless stream of drinks. He only hoped that when he came to, he’d remember what he sought out to do. He didn’t think it would be hard; he had something spectacular in mind, something that would really show Roger how wrong he was in saying that their relationship couldn’t work. It was going to work; it <em>had </em>to.</p><p>“Just look at him,” Nana muttered, looking to Roger. “He needs you. He needs his best friend.”</p><p>The blonde slipped his arm out from underneath Tim’s grandmother’s and wordlessly entered the room, acknowledging her remark as he approached the bed and knelt down beside it, making himself eye level with the brunette. He was so close he could smell the alcohol in the shallow breaths that slipped past Tim’s parted lips, a frown forming on his own.</p><p>“Meet us downstairs when you’re ready, dear,” Nana murmured, closing the door to the bedroom that “Johnny” had dragged Tim to last night and retreating down the hallway.</p><p>Roger didn’t dare look back, too entranced by the sight of his dozing boyfriend. He lifted his hand and placed it gently atop of Tim’s, the slight touch stirring the brunette awake. Tim instinctively retracted his hand, crinkled his eyebrows in agony, and blinked a few times to clear up his vision before turning his head to the side and meeting the blonde’s unmistakable blue-eyed gaze. A scowl appeared on his face, and he would’ve turned away if he had the strength to, but his budding hangover kept him in place. “What are you doing here, Roger?” he asked groggily, his lips drawn into a straight line.</p><p>“I...I don’t like where we left things, Tim,” the blonde answered, biting his lip and pinching the silk bed sheets he wished he’d had the pleasure of sleeping on. The brunette stared at him blankly, the awkward silence that blanketed the room drawing Roger out of the daze he’d slipped into and encouraging him to elaborate, “I don’t like us being apart.”</p><p>Tim fought the sluggish feeling that paralyzed him and sat himself up on his elbows. “You don’t?”</p><p>Roger shook his head, tugging at the corners of his boyfriend’s lips. The brunette shimmied to the other side of the massive bed and patted the newly open spot beside him, inviting the blonde to join him. Roger couldn’t hold back the smirk that formed on his own lips, standing up and sliding into the silk sheets that felt like absolute heaven. He felt bad for all the times Nana stayed with them and slept in their bed—their thread count was deplorable compared to hers.</p><p>“Look at us,” Tim muttered, a loving expression washing over his face as he watched his boyfriend rub the satin bedding in awe. “We could do this every day, you know—wake up together in a bed like this every morning, come home to a house like this every night...”</p><p>The blonde chuckled, too engrossed in the luxury he’d only ever dreamed of finding himself in to remember what he originally came here for. “Yeah right. We can’t even afford the apartment we have in New York.”</p><p>“Well, no, but Nana’s on her way out, and if I just talk to her—”</p><p>Roger’s head snapped in the brunette’s direction. “What do you mean 'if you just talk to her'? About what?”</p><p>“About giving you the life you deserve—the life <em>we </em>deserve!” He moved closer to the blonde’s side and tucked his fingers underneath Roger’s chin, holding his head in place so that they kept looking at each other. “We can start over this time for real. No more phone sex, no more clients, just you and me and this big arse house. We can do whatever we want.”</p><p>He was giving Roger another chance. After ten years, he thought the blonde deserved it. Unfortunately, his boyfriend didn’t realize that that was what he was doing, and the smile of disbelief that broke out on his face and the appalled response of, “What? No!” dug his grave just a little deeper. He scrambled out of the bed and spun around to face his incensed boyfriend. “That’s crazy, Tim! I don’t want this!”</p><p>“Really?” he snapped. “Because you seemed pretty in love with these sheets.”</p><p>“They’re fucking sheets, Tim! I’m not going to pretend to want to be with you just so I can get some nice sheets!” The silence that previously consumed the room returned with an unforgettable vengeance, causing a blush to rise in the blonde’s cheeks as he realized what he’d said—the indignant look on the brunette’s face making sure of it. Roger hung his head and covered his face, pushing his fingers through his hair before dropping his hands to his sides and admitting, “I didn’t mean that.”</p><p>“No, I think you did, Roger,” Tim sneered. “I think you’ve been meaning to say that for a long time now. You just didn’t have the words to say it.”</p><p>Flustered, the blonde tried to lighten the dark mood by throwing his thumb over his shoulder and mentioning, “You know Nana’s shagging John Lennon, right?”</p><p>Tim ripped the pillow out from underneath him and threw it over his face, flopping back down on the bed and grumbling with a muffled voice, “Get out, Roger.”</p><p>The blonde heaved a defeated sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, muttering, “Can you just promise me you won’t do anything you’re gonna regret? I’m worried about you.”</p><p>“<em>Leave</em>,” the brunette groaned loudly, silencing his boyfriend and sending him out of the room—the door slamming shut behind him in a fit of rage. This wasn’t how he wanted this morning to go. He still didn’t know what Tim had been planning, which—with what words were exchanged—doubled his anxiety. He’d only upset his boyfriend before; now he was infuriated.</p><p>He fell against the flat surface and slid down it until he sat on the floor with his knees drawn into his chest. He dropped his hands into his lap and began to twiddle his thumbs, listening to the cheerful clink of teacups and saucers that echoed through the expansive house, disturbed only by the sound of a nearby door clicking open.</p><p>Roger turned his head in the sound’s direction, watching as another unexpected guest stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. His eyes widened as they approached him, the shrinking distance between them punching out a shocked, “<em>Geoff?</em>”</p><p>“Roger, you didn’t tell me your boyfriend’s grandma was rich!” the New York born-and-raised bartender laughed, bending down and high-fiving the blonde’s knee as he passed by without stopping. “Good to see you, buddy. I was wondering when you’d join the party.”</p><p>“What are you...How are you...Why are you...” The questions that Roger wanted to ask went unanswered as Geoff escaped downstairs, leaving the blonde alone in the hallway to try and piece the wild puzzle together on his own.</p><p>Too bad he didn’t have all the pieces.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian entered the university’s cafeteria that day as though he were a zombie. He could’ve easily been mistaken for one, thanks to the restless night he’d had, trading sleep for a long talk with Chrissie that no one felt good about when the sun came up and their daughter started making noises in the other room. Their shared dissatisfaction was obvious, but neither of them dared to revisit the conversation. They were both too exhausted and knew that—no matter how long or how hard they tried to work things out—their decision going forward wasn’t going to be easy. They just weren’t ready to give up what was holding them back.</p><p>It was safe to say that both their mornings had been rough. The headmistress had holed herself up in her office—blinds closed and lights off—and the professor had barely made it through his first two lectures, his disconnect with the lesson evident to his students whose simple questions he struggled to answer.</p><p>Brian wasn’t even particularly hungry as he joined the line of students and faculty leading to the counter, but he couldn’t stand another minute in that lecture hall, reminiscing about Roger’s visit; remembering the way the blonde’s shortened hair glistened in the lights suspended from the ceiling, surrounding him in an ethereal glow, and how it felt to have him close again, his body perfectly flush with his own as he clung to the chalkboard for support.</p><p>The professor shuddered at the arousing memory and reminded himself of where he was, scanning the crowded room behind him for pairs of suspicious eyes. He was sure that every single person would be looking at him, their narrowed eyes letting on to their knowledge of his secret; their knowledge that he was the fraud he always thought himself to be.</p><p>Although there were no heads turned his way, not even those of the infamous group of five that seemed to be everywhere the professor and headmistress were, Brian still hung his head in shame, thoughts brewing in his mind about how he didn’t deserve his job; how he didn’t deserve the relationship—relationship<em>s</em>—he found himself in; how all he deserved was—</p><p>“Are you coming this weekend?”</p><p>Brian jumped at the voice, turning around to see Sting standing behind him—his arms folded over his chest and his lips curled into an amused smirk. “Excuse me?” the professor asked, his heart pounding against his chest.</p><p>“<em>I said</em>...” the substitute women’s studies teacher replied, brushing past his colleague and snatching two recently washed trays from the counter, “...are you coming this weekend? To the show?” He spun around and handed Brian one of the trays, the professor snatching it harshly from his grasp.</p><p>“You know, I don’t think I’ll be able to make it,” Brian informed him with a clenched jaw, nodding his head to silently nudge Sting forward—the line moving ahead behind him.</p><p>“Oh, come on. What’s stopping you now?” the new blonde sneered while taking a step backwards, not daring to turn away from the professor. “And don’t tell me it’s that daughter of yours, because I refuse to accept that as your excuse. Try again.”</p><p>“What if I told you I just don’t want to go?” the professor snapped, slamming his tray down on the counter and sliding it along—or as far as it could go with Sting standing in his way.</p><p>“Well, I don’t think your wife would like that very much,” the shorter of the two muttered, glaring at the professor and shoving his tray forward. “She’s good friends with the drummer—” the corner of his lip pricked upward into a smirk, “—<em>very </em>good friends, and it’s been a while since they last saw each other.”</p><p>Brian’s eyebrows crinkled together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means you better come to the show, you know, to keep an eye on her; make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid,” Sting answered with a taunting wink, grabbing the closest dish in his vicinity and stepping out of line. Brian watched with a suspicious eye as the newcomer crossed over to the register, threw a smile on his face, and greeted the cashier with a friendliness that the professor had yet to see in his colleague. He only realized he’d been staring when the person behind him in line nudged him, alerting him to the gap that formed ahead. The professor shook his head and left the counter with an empty tray—his growing concern about Chrissie’s involvement with the drummer in Sting’s band—whose identity was quickly figured out—curbing his already nonexistent appetite.</p><p>He tossed the tray on an unsteady stack of others and fled from the cafeteria to the headmistress’s office, barging in without knocking and snapping Chrissie’s head up from her desk. “Is that what last night was all about?” he asked her fervently, throwing the door shut behind him and approaching her desk with an enraged passion.</p><p>“What are you—”</p><p>“It’s him, isn’t it?” Brian cut her off, a wicked, delirious smirk twitching at his lips as he watched his wife gawk stupidly at him. “The drummer, in Sting’s band, he’s the guy—the guy you couldn’t be with.” The professor slammed his hands atop her desk and leaned over it with a wildness in his eyes that made Chrissie’s throat swell in fear. “You knew he was going to be at the show this weekend,” he whispered, “and you pulled your little stunt last night because you wanted to pull the wool over my eyes, didn’t you?”</p><p>The headmistress scoffed. “Brian, I don’t know what—”</p><p>“I’m not an idiot, Chrissie,” he muttered, much of the anger he entered the room with subsiding as he pushed himself away from the desk and began to pace back and forth. He retraced his steps only a few times before taking a seat in front of her, folding his hands in his lap and continuing sullenly, “I know what you want to do, and you know what I want to do, but we’re on thin ice, here—one wrong step and we’re toast. We can’t...It’s not...” His eyes met her glistening ones and his bottom lip got tucked behind his front teeth, the professor waiting nervously for her to respond. She seemed speechless, though, sitting across from him with her head hung low and her thumbs passing over one another in her lap. “What are we going to do?” he finally broke the silence, attracting her reluctant gaze.</p><p>She sniffled and wiped beneath her eyes, answering, “I don’t know if there’s anything we <em>can</em> do, Brian. They’re both here now, and until this band thing sets off, they’re not going anywhere for a while.”</p><p>For the second time that afternoon, confusion washed over the professor’s face. “What? What do you mean ‘until this band thing sets off’? What ‘band thing’ are you talking about?”</p><p>Chrissie matched his facial expression. “Didn’t Roger tell you?” Her husband shook his head, encouraging her to hesitantly share, “He’s in their band, Sting and Stewart’s. He’s their new guitarist.”</p><p>The professor’s eyes doubled in size, and before Chrissie could say anything more, he leapt out of his seat and darted out of the office. “Brian!” she tried calling after him, getting up herself and stepping out into the hallway. “Brian, where are you going?” she yelled, her question left unanswered as he disappeared down the stairwell.</p><p>The headmistress heaved a sigh and tossed her arms up in the air in defeat, turning around and spotting the shyest girl of the notorious friend group standing at the other end of the hallway, her body half-hidden in one of the corridors that jutted out from the one her office was located in. “Miss Tetzlaff?” Chrissie muttered, deepening the scowl that marked the student’s face. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be in class?”</p><p>Veronica’s teeth ground against each other and her knuckles turned white, the grasp she had on her books tightening before she vanished down the hallway without acknowledging the headmistress’s inquiry. Chrissie pressed her lips together before slipping back into her office, shutting the door behind her and locking it this time.</p><p>*****</p><p>The professor’s car pulled up to the only place he knew the blonde to be at—that is, after checking the stall and seeing that there’d been a sign set out on the counter which misleadingly read <strong>Be Back Soon</strong>. He yanked the keys out of the ignition and jumped out of the car, storming up the walkway and pounding relentlessly on the poor door. His knocks were so consistent and so loud that he neglected to hear the “I’m coming! I’m coming!” from inside the house. It was only when the door was drawn in that Brian dropped his hand to his side and regained some of the composure he’d lost on his drive there.</p><p>“I’m glad to see you’ve changed your mind,” Freddie sneered, folding his arms over his chest and smirking at the faint, short-lived blush that rose in the taller man’s cheeks.</p><p>Brian sighed. “I just need to talk to him, Fred. Is he here?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t <em>you </em>like that,” the dark-haired man sniggered, keeping up the antics that the professor had no patience for.</p><p>“Look, I really don’t have time for your games, Freddie. Is Roger here or not?”</p><p>“No,” the homeowner finally divulged, pouting and sharing, “I actually haven’t seen him since yesterday. The bastard was out of the house before either Mary or I got up.”</p><p>“Well, can I come in then? Wait until he shows up?” the antsy professor begged, his beating heart and racing mind refusing to let him walk away without the answers he needed. “It’s kind of important, what we have to talk about.”</p><p>“Be my guest.” The dark-haired man stepped to the side and ushered the professor in, watching with intrigue as he brushed past him. The first thing Brian noticed were all the magazines scattered about—some closed, some open to certain pages, some with pages torn out. Accompanying the catalogues were several samples of flowers, fabric swatches, table decorations, and more.</p><p>“There’s cake in the fridge, if you’re hungry,” Freddie commented, joining Brian’s side and sighing. “We have every flavor you could ever imagine. Don’t believe me? Take a look for yourself.”</p><p>“I-I’m good, thanks,” the professor politely declined, forcing a grin on his face and shoving his hands into his pockets. He wandered into the living room and caught a glimpse of some of the centerfolds, noticing the suits that Freddie had circled. None were traditional, and some even had notes scribbled next to them of things the dark-haired man wanted to add to them. The clutter instilled a sense of relief in the professor, making him grateful that things didn’t work out between him and Mary. He didn’t know what he’d do if Chrissie were this enthusiastic about their wedding. Granted, they were crunched for time and didn’t have the funds to afford such a lavish setting and wardrobe, but still. He’d dodged a bullet.</p><p>“You know, I’ve been meaning to catch up with you,” Freddie blurted out, stealing Brian’s attention from the catalogues and making room for them on the couch. “We haven’t talked since your daughter’s baptism.”</p><p>“I’ve been busy,” he muttered, earning a quick glimpse from Roger’s friend.</p><p>“Oh, I know you have,” the dark-haired man replied slyly, dropping the sloppily assembled stack of magazines onto the end table, where it joined a tray full of half-smoked cigarettes and a spilled bottle of dark red nail lacquer. He collapsed like a rag doll onto the end of the couch, his arms and legs draped limpidly over the sides, and met the professor’s embarrassed gaze. “But if you want to keep busy...” He whipped out a pack of cigarettes and extracted two white sticks, pinching one in the corner of his mouth and extending the other one out to his guest.</p><p>The professor stared at the offering with a sense of apprehension, Roger’s phantom voice ringing in his ears, <em>I don’t think smoking’s going to solve your problem, Bri...but it’ll calm your nerves. </em>The words belonged to two different times, coming from two different Rogers, but they shared the same power, encouraging Brian to snatch the cigarette from Freddie and take the seat beside him. The unused corner of the dark-haired man’s lips curled up into a small grin as he exchanged the soft pack for a lighter, touching the flame to the end of both the sticks. The two breathed in, and Brian resisted the dire urge to cough—refusing to let on to his immediate regret.</p><p>Freddie saw right through him, though, his small grin stretching as he sunk back into the couch and exhaled a steady stream of smoke towards the ceiling, finishing his nearly forgotten sentence, “...you need to do something big, and fast.”</p><p>Brian shook his head, knowing where this conversation was going before it even really took off. It was the same conversation they had last time, and though a lot had happened since then, the outcome was going to be the same. “Freddie, I don’t want to get into this with you again.”</p><p>“Well, I just thought because Tim’s back—”</p><p>The professor’s eyes widened for the second time that day. “Tim’s back?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, and I don’t know what he’s up to, but I doubt it’s any good.” Freddie took another drag from his cigarette and let the smoke out in little ringlets that floated up in the air, disappearing before they could travel far. He dropped his head to the side and asked, “You wouldn’t let Roger take him back, would you?”</p><p>That unfortunately familiar warmth spread from Brian’s cheeks to his neck and to his chest, the answer dancing on the tip of his tongue but refusing to come out. He brought the white stick in his fingers to his lips once more, hoping the nicotine would do what Roger said it would and allow him to relax like he did with alcohol.</p><p>It did not.</p><p>Freddie sat forward and turned towards Brian, looking him dead in the eye with brows furrowed in disbelief. “You seriously wouldn’t stop Roger from going back to Tim?”</p><p>The professor could only shrug, the words he desperately wanted to say—<em>Of course, I would. What do you think I am, crazy?</em>—still reluctant to manifest themselves.</p><p>“You can’t let him go back to him, Brian,” the dark-haired man stressed with a seriousness that wouldn’t have seemed so intense had Brian had a beer in his hands instead of a lousy cigarette. “You can’t, and I know you know why.” He placed his hand on Brian’s thigh and gave it a slight squeeze that made the professor tense up. “He needs you, Bri, now more than ever.”</p><p>It was a lot of pressure that Brian was under, with all these people <em>needing</em> him. Chrissie <em>needed</em> him in order to keep up appearances, and now Roger <em>needed </em>him to move past the abusive relationship that had been holding him back for years. The professor was only one person, and he wasn’t a miracle worker. He had no idea how he’d accomplish both. It seemed to him that it was one or the other, and he wasn’t ready to make that decision—no matter how obvious it might be to someone else, because as much as he cared about the headmistress and the former music instructor, they’d both hurt him in different ways. Chrissie had lied to him, and Roger had abandoned him. They manipulated Brian for their own benefit, finding in him an escape from their unsatisfying relationships. He was always second best, yet everything fell on his shoulders.</p><p>A sharp jab in the shoulder drew Brian out of the stupor he’d slipped into, averting his attention to the dark-haired man seated across from him. “You need to tell him how you feel,” Freddie insisted, “before it’s too late.”</p><p>The professor shifted uncomfortably and, with a tight throat, muttered, “You said there was cake in the fridge?”</p><p>*****</p><p>Hours passed by with no signs of Roger. Freddie hadn’t been lying to Brian when he told him that they had every flavor of cake imaginable in their fridge, the unlikely pair poking at the small squares together, one after the other—the professor hoping to prolong the avoidance of his clearly needed action while the other hoped the dessert would coax his guest into opening up and assuring him that he wouldn’t let his friend fall back into the arms of his abuser.</p><p>The two had just polished off the final piece of cake—a chocolate decadence—when the front door burst open and made way for a very inebriated Roger, the blonde stumbling into the house, tripping over his own feet, and falling into the wall. Brian and Freddie immediately shot out of their chairs, the former wiping his mouth with a napkin before following the latter into the foyer.</p><p>“I’m home,” Roger announced drunkenly, barely able to lift his own head to meet Freddie’s gaze. His vision was so impaired that he didn’t even notice the tall professor standing behind his friend.</p><p>“You had me worried sick, Roger,” Freddie chastised him, bending down and slipping his hands underneath the blonde’s arms to pick him up. When the two of them were standing, with one of Freddie’s arms wrapped around Roger’s shoulders and one of his hands on his stomach, the dark-haired man proposed the same question that the blonde had asked him when he arrived at the stall yesterday. “Now where on earth have you been?”</p><p>“Having drinks with Johnny,” Roger mumbled, lazily glancing up at his friend and attempting to shape his lips into a grin. Freddie glanced over at Brian, as if the professor would know who he was talking about, but with the frantic shake of his head, he proved useless; the dark-haired man was going to have to figure this one out on his own.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, Freddie returned his attention to his friend and entertained his nonsensical response with, “Oh, were you now?” before guiding him into the living room. Brian trailed in after them, watching as the homeowner carefully set his houseguest down on the couch. The blonde collapsed like a rag doll, his body slump against the piece of furniture’s arm and its back. “Where did you and Johnny go?”</p><p>“Some bar near Nan—” His words came to an abrupt stop, tension quickly building in the room as Brian and Freddie anticipated the rest of the blonde’s sentence. It would never come, though, with Roger sitting upright—his back as straight as a pin—and shooting off the couch like a rocket. He darted past Brian without even acknowledging him and escaped to the kitchen, where he clung to the sink—after running into one of the pulled-out chairs and throwing it to the side—and expelled the contents of his stomach, which were all liquids.</p><p>Freddie and Brian filled the doorway separating the kitchen from the foyer, the latter tipping his head towards the former and whispering, “Maybe I should just head home, come back another time.”</p><p>“No, no!” the dark-haired man objected as quietly as he could manage. “Just give him a few more minutes. I know Roger; he’ll be fine after he—” A retching sound stole the words from Freddie’s mouth, his and Brian’s gazes being drawn back over to the blonde whose day had finally caught up to him. Freddie glanced back over at the professor and begged, “Please, just stay a bit longer.”</p><p>Reluctantly, Brian agreed, and just as Freddie promised, Roger sobered up shortly after wiping his vomit speckled lips with the back of his wrist and peeling away from the sink. It wasn’t until he dropped himself into one of the seats at the kitchen table that he noticed the professor’s presence. “When did you get here?” the blonde asked, his voice low and hoarse as his friend brought him over a glass of water and some painkillers.</p><p>“I’ve been for a while, actually,” he answered, watching as Roger scooped the white pills into his mouth and washed them down with the cold water that sent a shiver down his back. He seemed almost innocent handing the glass back to Freddie, a small grin tweaking the corners of both his lips and Brian’s. The professor dared to step away from the threshold and join the blonde at the table, gaining his attention when he leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the flat surface, explaining, “I came here to talk to you.”</p><p>“You know, I think that was Mary calling me,” Freddie interjected, attracting both men’s gazes. He flashed them a brilliant smile before planting parting kisses atop their heads and bidding the two of them a good night. “Oh, and Brian?” he blurted out, stopping at the bottom of the staircase leading to the second floor and smirking. “Be sure to lock the door on your way out if you leave before sunrise.”</p><p>With that, the dark-haired man escaped upstairs with a wink, leaving the professor and the blonde alone in the kitchen. An awkward silence fell over the two men, a blush rising in Roger’s cheeks as he thought about what it could be that Brian wanted to talk about. This was the first time they’d seen each other since their fallout at the stall, and neither of them knew what had transpired during that time.</p><p>Roger was certainly in no place to admit to Brian that he’d ran into Tim shortly after he left and spent the better part of his day today searching for him; nor was Brian willing to confess to his and Chrissie’s try at making things work again. After all, that wasn’t what he was there to discuss, though it did play a role in it.</p><p>“You didn’t tell me you were in a band,” the professor finally said, breaking the awkward silence that filled the air.</p><p>The blonde chuckled nervously, running a hand through his messy hair. “I didn’t?” He knew he didn’t. It wasn’t on purpose; it just hadn’t come up in conversation. Besides, it wouldn’t have been as romantic to tell him that he was back in London to play a few gigs and see if he was a good fit for this new group that was forming, now would it?</p><p>“No, you didn’t,” Brian affirmed, a worrying seriousness in his tone. He began to pick at the table’s splintering wood, hoping to distract himself as he added, “You didn’t tell me there was a show this weekend either.”</p><p>Roger shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Brian, I didn’t—”</p><p>“You can’t go, Rog,” the curly-haired man cut him off, looking up to meet his gaze.</p><p>The blonde scoffed. “What do you mean I can’t go?”</p><p>“I mean you can’t go,” he repeated himself, snatching the plate that he and Freddie had been prodding at—which now only held crumbs—and carrying it over to the sink, where he added it to the other small saucers piled high in the one half of the basin. The other half was empty, with minuscule remnants of the contents of Roger’s stomach clinging to the bottom. He gripped the edge of the counter and hung his head, explaining, “Look, it’s just that...Chrissie and I are going to be there, and I...I think it would be best for all of us if you stayed as far away from that show as possible.” He dared to take a look over his shoulder and saw that Roger’s eyebrows had found their way to one another, and that his arms had crossed over his chest.</p><p>“Oh, do you now?” the blonde sneered, unable to ignore the resemblance between the professor and his boyfriend in that moment—the two of them always trying to control him and tell him what he could and couldn’t do.</p><p>“Please, Rog, don’t make this harder than it already is,” Brian pleaded, turning around to face him but remaining at the sink.</p><p>“Harder than it already is?” Roger echoed in disbelief, standing up from the table and staggering in place. He clutched onto the table’s edge for support and straightened his posture, resting his free hand on his hip and shifting his weight to the opposite side, asking, “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means I know I’m going to do something bad if you’re there, and I promised her I wouldn’t!” the professor cried, the words tumbling out of his mouth against his will and coloring both men’s cheeks a deep shade of red.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Brian gasped, horrified at the confession he just made, and clamped his hand over the lower half of his face, staring at Roger with wide eyes in anticipation of his response. He wanted to believe that what he just said wasn’t said at all; that he’d only imagined it and, really, he and Roger were standing in silence, with the blonde waiting for the professor to answer his question. However, he knew he already had in the way the blonde tilted his head down in avoidance of his gaze, running his fingers anxiously through his hair.</p><p>Roger held his hands at the back of his scalp for a bit—the tension in the room rising—before dropping them to his sides and lifting his head up—an amused smirk spread across his lips. “Wow, Bri, I...I didn’t know you had it this bad for me,” he quipped—his only way of knowing how to deal with situations like this.</p><p>The professor’s reaction, though, wiped the smile right off Roger’s face and made it clear to him that Brian had no intention of handling this with a light heart. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and pushed himself away from the kitchen counter. “I want to be good,” he muttered, brushing past the blonde and returning to the table. “And I want to do the right thing.” Keeping his back to him, the blonde turned his head over his shoulder and watched the professor attempt to clean up the mess he and Freddie had made. However, he only got as far as stacking the dirty dishes before stopping and slamming his hands down on the splintered surface to admit, “But there’s also a part of me that wants to just run away with you like we were supposed to a year ago and forget about everything else.”</p><p>Brian glanced up at Roger and pressed his lips together, as if refraining from saying the words that wanted to follow his even more horrifying confession. At that point, though, the professor saw no use in holding back. Besides, with the glimmer of intrigue in the blonde’s eyes that were locked on his, he couldn’t. So, he swallowed the lump in his throat and revealed, “I was going to call you the night of the concert. Chrissie was going to be there, and I...I was going to stay behind so that I could come and get you and we could leave without anybody stopping us.” He took a grave pause and tilted his head down, sighing, “But then I learned you were in the band, and that Tim was back.”</p><p>The blonde had to snap himself out of the daze he’d fallen into, having lost focus after Brian admitted to wanting to run away with him. He shook his head and turned on his heel, asking, “Sorry, what?”</p><p>“It’s never going to work out for us, is it?” the professor grumbled, ignoring Roger’s request for him to repeat himself and circling the table so that they were standing toe to toe. Their breaths mixed—cake on Brian’s and liquor on Roger’s. Brian’s hand twitched by his side, tempted to graze Roger’s cheek, tuck a piece of his hair behind his ear, and lean in to kiss him, but he resisted the urge and instead continued, “There’s always going to be something in our way; something to stop us from doing what we really want.”</p><p>“And what <em>is</em> it that we want, Brian?” Roger murmured, his hands not wielding as much control as Brian’s as they found their way to the professor’s untucked shirt and started playing with the buttons. The professor watched as the blonde’s hands grew bored of their meaningless task, knowing deep down they should be messing with guitar strings instead. Roger shifted his hands to his hips and gazed up at the taller man, asking, “Do we really want to be with each other, or are we just trying to find ways out of the terrible relationships we got ourselves into?”</p><p>The blonde didn’t realize the amount of clarity he was speaking with, courtesy of the alcohol still coursing through his veins. He was just speaking his mind, thinking about everything he and Johnny talked about at the countless bars they crawled; everything that transpired in Nana’s spare bedroom; and everything that happened since the moment he came back to London. He was even tempted to think all the way back to when he and Brian first met, but the moment wouldn’t allow him—the pained expression that crossed Brian’s face thrusting him back into the present.</p><p>Roger parted his lips to try and redeem himself, but before he could even get a word out, the professor abandoned the kitchen and retreated to the living room, snatching up the carelessly discarded pack of cigarettes Freddie had pulled from before and extracting another stick for himself. He popped the cigarette between his lips and tossed the pack aside, scanning the room for a lighter. Turning in circles, he stopped dead when he noticed Roger in the doorway.</p><p>“I didn’t know you smoke,” he muttered.</p><p>“It helps me think,” Brian explained curtly, expanding his search from the vicinity of the couch to the vicinity of the whole room. It was only when he brushed past Roger that his frustrations were put to an end—the blonde smacking his hand into his chest and using his other to raise a flame to the white stick. Brian cautiously leaned forward, his eyes locked on Roger’s as the cigarette dipped into the small fire and scorched its one end. He breathed in deep, letting the nicotine that previously irritated him soothe his heightened nerves, and waited until Roger capped his Zippo to step back, plucking the cigarette from his lips and exhaling slowly. He fell back into the wall by the doorway and turned his head towards the blonde, small grins appearing on both their faces.</p><p>Brian dropped his head bashfully and looked at the white stick hanging by his side, twirling it around before answering seemingly out of the blue, “The first one.”</p><p>Roger chuckled. “What first one?”</p><p>“You asked if we really want to be with each other or if we’re just trying to escape our problems,” the professor reminded him, daring to meet those baby blues that glistened in the dim lighting. “And I say it’s the first one—we really want to be with each other.”</p><p>“How do you know?” the blonde asked, curving his body around the threshold so that his and Brian’s arms touched.</p><p>The professor raised an index finger and then handed off the burning white stick to Roger, escaping to the front hall where his bag lay on its side, his folders and binders threatening to spill out. No one had realized it when it happened, but upon entering the house, Roger had tripped over it—the combination of his sudden loss of balance and his inebriation supplying the magnetic force that made him gravitate towards the wall. Brian knelt down beside his bag and flipped it right side up, extracting his beloved notebook and turning to the only page contained in the wire spiral that’s had more than one pair of eyes fall upon it. He closed his eyes, praying to the god he didn’t believe in to let it make all the difference, and rose up from the ground. He turned towards Roger—the notebook pressed to his chest.</p><p>“What’s that?” the blonde questioned.</p><p>“It’s how I know,” he replied with a smirk, eliminating the distance between them and trading the notebook out for his cigarette. Brian popped the white stick into the corner of his mouth and crossed his arms, watching as Roger hesitantly examined the journal. He turned it around so that the words scribbled across the page faced the right way, scanning them over and quickly realizing what they were.</p><p>“It’s a song,” the blonde whispered.</p><p>“Not just any song,” Brian corrected him, plucking the cigarette from his lips and blowing the smoke out to the side. He tapped the top of the page where the title sat. “<em>Your </em>song.”</p><p>Roger blinked away the pathetic tears that began to build in his eyes, thinking about how not even Tim had written him a song before, and if he had, the blonde doubted it would be written as beautifully as this.</p><p>“It’s not finished yet,” the professor admitted, taking another quick drag that nearly sent him into a brief fit of coughs. “But I think it gets the point across well enough, don’t you?”</p><p>The blonde chuckled but said nothing, too choked up to speak. All he could do was stare at the scribbled words that seemed too good to be true.</p><p>“Well?” Brian asked, interpreting the silence as a sign that he’d taken things too far; that showing Roger the song was nothing but a mistake he’d later regret, similar to a lot of things in his life.</p><p>This wasn’t going to be one of them, though.</p><p>Roger shook his head and glanced up to meet Brian’s anxious gaze, shaking the book in his hands and confessing, “You know, I told Tim today that I didn’t want to be with him.” The professor’s eyes grew wide. “Well, not exactly,” the blonde quickly corrected himself. “I told him I couldn’t pretend to want to be with him anymore.” His cheeks grew red as he explained, “And he just gave me this look that...that made me doubt what I said, and I tried to take it back—you know, say I didn’t mean it—but he said that I did; that I just didn’t have the words to say it before.”</p><p>Brian swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and stammered with furrowed brows, “W-Why are you telling me this, Roger?”</p><p>“Because I’ve never been good with words, Brian,” Roger muttered, shoving the notebook into the professor’s chest. The latter instinctively grabbed it, dropping the half-burned cigarette to the floor and watching the blonde brush past him and take a seat on the couch. “I’ve just never been able to say exactly how I feel, and...and now look where I am.” He snatched the discarded pack of cigarettes and pulled a new one out for himself, which just so happened to be the last. Lighting it, he rattled off angrily, “I’m performing with a band tomorrow night whose music I can’t play to save my life; my boyfriend’s roaming around London, waiting to strike when I’ll least expect it; and then...” he plucked the white stick from his lips and exhaled, sinking into the couch with a sigh, “...there’s <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Brian waited patiently for Roger to elaborate on what it was about him that was so hard to put into words or affected him so, but the blonde just kept smoking, one long drag after the other. The silence that filled the room angered the professor, just as much as Roger’s woes angered him. However, there was no more cake to bury his feelings in, nor were there any more cigarettes to “help him think”—not that he even wanted one. His throat burned, and the taste in his mouth was something awful. All he wanted was a mint.</p><p>Just as Brian was about to ask if Freddie had any lying around, Roger blurted out, “I don’t know what I want, Brian.” He stared at the cigarette in his hand, rotating it in a small circle. “But I do know that I don’t want to run away again.” He took another quick puff from it, explaining through a wispy cloud of smoke, “I already did that, and it didn’t change a goddamn thing. I still got hurt; I still did things I wasn’t proud of. The only fucking difference was that you weren’t there to make it better.”</p><p>The professor’s cheeks burned once again, the genuine tone to the blonde’s voice striking him in a way he hadn’t expected. It was rare for the blonde to be honest and not instantly take back his words. Part of Brian was afraid that he was going to, the long pause that filled the conversation worrying the professor to no end. It was only when Roger chuckled that the growing tension was relieved, the blonde wondering, “Who ever thought that I’d be you and you’d be me?”</p><p>Brian’s eyebrow arched in confusion. “What?”</p><p>The blonde glanced back at him with tired baby blues, his lips curled into a smirk. “A year ago, you were the one who didn’t know what he wanted. Now I’m the one who doesn’t know what he wants.” He faced forward once more and bit his lip, looking down at the cigarette pinched between his fingers once more and muttering, “Don’t you think it was easier when I was you and you were me?” He brought the white stick to his lips and inhaled dejectedly.</p><p>“When I was you and you were me,” the professor repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.</p><p>“You know, I’m starting to think that I was wrong for wanting to get away from prostituting myself out,” Roger grumbled, his thoughts beginning to spiral. He rested his head on the back of the sofa and blew a steady stream of smoke at the ceiling. “Would you believe I found myself doing the same exact fucking thing in America that I did here, except this time dressed as myself and with girls? Well, <em>girl</em>—there was only one, but what if Tim was right? What if that’s all I’m good for?”</p><p><em>“When I was you and you were me,” </em>Brian echoed himself, utterly blind to the crisis that was building in the blonde. Suddenly, he rounded the couch and shuffled through the remainder of the bridal magazines scattered about the coffee table with one hand—the other holding the notebook to his chest. His erratic change in behavior threw the blonde to the opposite arm of the couch that had seen better days.</p><p>“What the hell, Brian?” Roger snapped.</p><p>“I need a pen.”</p><p>The blonde’s eyebrows wove closer together. “What do you need a fucking pen for?”</p><p>“Just find me a pen, Roger!” the professor shouted, continuing his search that gained a member after Roger took one more drag from the cigarette and smashed it in the tray with all the others.</p><p>Getting on his hands and knees, the blonde found what Brian was looking for underneath the couch. He bent his arm in a way that it hadn’t been bent in since he last adorned himself in makeup and slipped into skirts and snatched the pen with some difficulty, extending the writing utensil to the professor. “Here,” he mumbled.</p><p>Without so much as a thank you, Brian took the pen into his possession and reclaimed his seat on the couch, putting the ballpoint tip to the paper and scribbling away. Roger joined his side with an undeniable sense of suspicion, their legs brushing as he looked over the professor’s shoulder and watched the words that had previously been bottled up flow out of him with ease.</p><p>“Together took us nearly there, the rest may not be sung,” Roger read aloud the words written underneath the ones he’d spoken just moments ago.</p><p>It was difficult for the professor to keep his focus with Roger’s voice tickling his ear and sending a shiver down his spine, but he did, murmuring the new lyrics as he jotted them down, “So still the cloud it hangs...over us, and we’re alone...but some day, one day—”</p><p>“We’ll come home,” the blonde finished for him softly, Brian’s wide eyes slowly lifting from the page to meet his that glimmered in a way the professor hadn’t witnessed in over a year.</p><p>Just then, the world around the two slowed to a dead stop, leaving them to embrace the moment that had been long in the making. They both knew what was going to happen next; there was no doubt about it. The question was, who was going to lean in first? Most of the time it was Brian bringing them together, with Roger stepping in only when the professor was hesitant. The blonde could tell that this was going to be one of those moments, and so without saying another word, he dove in, denying the professor the chance to hesitate a second longer by capturing his lips with his. The kiss was forceful—Roger’s grace inhibited by the alcohol that lingered in his bloodstream—but Brian quickly melted into the gesture, wrapping his arms around the blonde and pulling him close.</p><p>As the temperature in the room began to rise, Roger pushed the notebook out of Brian’s lap and onto the floor and replaced it with himself. He straddled the curly-haired man with his thighs and felt the bulge already starting to grow inside the professor’s trousers. The blonde’s lips curled up into a smirk, and while working hard not to break the kiss, he slid his hand down between them. A moan emanated from the back of Brian’s throat, the feeling of Roger’s hand around him sending a wave of pleasure throughout his body that spread from head to toe.</p><p>Roger gradually picked up the pace at which he moved his hand up and down, their lips no longer connected but their mouths still close enough for their panting breaths to mingle. The friction the blonde created with his rapid movement excited him as well, and with the tension starting to build down below, he knew he was close. Through lidded eyes, he could tell that Brian was too—his eyes squeezed shut and the grip he had on the blonde growing increasingly tighter; so tight that there was the possibility that, come tomorrow morning, when Roger would switch out today’s shirt with a new one, he’d find dime-sized bruises sprinkled across his hips.</p><p>Dark marks like that wouldn’t have been an uncommon sight for him a year ago, but back then, they weren’t something to be proud of. In fact, they instilled a great sense of shame in him—disappointing reminders of what he put himself through just to keep a roof over his and his boyfriend’s heads and to keep them from going hungry. This time, though, the marks would bring him back to this moment, where it was just him and Brian and no one else.</p><p>Suddenly, he ripped his hand out from between them and started grinding desperately against the professor, clutching onto his shoulders and chasing the high that was just a few more soft grunts away. He muted himself by crashing his lips into Brian’s, feeling himself start to unravel. Just before he could climax, though, Brian unexpectedly flipped them, lying Roger down across the couch cushions—punching a surprised gasp out of the blonde—and hovering over him.</p><p>Forgoing an apology—not that one was needed—the professor sat back and began to hastily undo his pants, yanking the belt out from its loops and struggling to get his fly down. It didn’t take long for Roger to do the same, forgetting all about Tim and Geoff and Chrissie and Liz and Stewart and Sting and all the guitar parts had yet to learn. The only thing that mattered in that moment was Brian, shimmying his pants down and exposing himself in a way he never would have done before last year.</p><p>There was just something about Roger, akin to alcohol, that lowered the professor’s inhibitions. He didn’t care that they were in Freddie’s living room, or that at any moment, either of the homeowners could come downstairs and find them copulating on their couch in the midst of their marital preparations. The only thing he cared about was Roger, knowing the blonde was what he wanted and knowing that there wasn’t going to be many more chances for him to show it or convince Roger to want him too.</p><p>“I need to—” the blonde began to say when Brian shut him up with another kiss, grazing his hand over the wetness that stained Roger’s front and using it to slide his fingers inside him. Roger’s back instinctively arched, his lips parting in a silent scream of pleasure as Brian began to gingerly open him up. The rush of ecstasy was almost too much for the blonde to bear, his arms trying to push the professor away but his legs wrapped tightly around him, keeping him close. It was only when Brian finally entered him—slowly and with permission that was met with an impatient “for fuck’s sake, yes”—that tortured agony evolved into pure bliss.</p><p>There were no questions from Brian about whether or not he was hurting Roger; nor were there any questions from the blonde about whether he should be on his stomach or his back. The two were way past that point, knowing there was no need to ask about what felt right and what felt wrong. <em>This </em>felt right, more right than either of them had felt in over a year. They tried their best to move on, to put that wild winter behind them by focusing on their new lives as a husband and father and as an Englishman in New York, but they couldn’t. Everything they did, every thought they had led them to this moment right here.</p><p>It seemed as though nothing could keep Brian and Roger apart; they were destined to be together in one way or another, and they were done trying to convince themselves that they weren’t. No one made them feel the way the other did. When they were together, like this, there wasn’t a single thing in the world that could bring them down from the highs they rode—not Chrissie, not Tim, not Freddie, not anyone. It was as if they didn’t have a care in the world; as if they didn’t live in a society that frowned upon their relationship. They could be who they were and know that someone loved them for exactly that. No secrets, no girlish getups needed. Just Brian May and Roger Taylor, perfect as is.</p><p>“I’m almost there,” the professor huffed as his quick thrusts grew sloppy.</p><p>“M-Me too,” the blonde choked out, throwing his head back into the couch and pushing his hips down into Brian’s—the pressure that had built into something intolerable subsiding as the professor began to throb inside of him, filling him with the same, warm liquid that splattered the shirt Roger neglected to strip himself of. Neither of the men seemed to care, though, with the taller of the two collapsing atop the shorter to catch his breath and savor the moment of rare closeness that they shared.</p><p>Doing the same, Roger closed his eyes and wove his fingers into the professor’s hair—his head resting against the blonde’s rising and falling chest. The only sounds that filled the air now were their soft breaths and the rather loud hum of the television from the floor above, letting the pair know that their affair hadn’t gone unheard. Again, neither Roger nor Brian were bothered by this, at least for a little while. Reality was bound to sink back in sooner or later.</p><p>The blonde was the first to realize this, thinking about the band and the show and, most importantly, the conversation he had with Tim. He couldn’t kick the idea he had that the brunette was planning something; something that was going to mess everything up.</p><p>That was his specialty, messing things up. Roger didn’t think this skill was acquired intentionally, but perhaps he still wore a pair of rose-colored glasses when it came to his boyfriend. After knowing him for so long, he knew deep down that Tim’s intentions were good. He wanted to do the right thing; he just never knew how, similar to Brian. It was clear that he was here to get Roger back, and that he was going to do whatever it took to bring him home. The problem was, Roger was already home—here, in London. Their apartment back in the States was nothing but a failed attempt at saving something that had already been lost. Both men knew this, but only one was willing to admit it. The other was going to defend it till his very last breath. Except, it wasn’t <em>his</em> last breath that was at stake.</p><p>Roger’s eyes popped open and fixated on the ceiling above them. “Hey, Bri?” he murmured, his voice shaky not out of fatigue, but out of fear.</p><p>“Yeah?” the professor mumbled, his response muffled by the blonde’s cum stained shirt.</p><p>He tousled some of the curls that his fingers had wrapped themselves in and confessed, “I’m worried.”</p><p>“About what?” Brian didn’t move, comfortably curled on top of the blonde.</p><p>“About Tim.” It pained Roger to utter those two words, thinking himself crazy for ruining such a perfect moment with his irrational concerns.</p><p>The brunette kicked him out; told him to leave. If he really wanted him to stay; if he really wanted to save their toxic relationship, he wouldn’t have denied Roger’s claim that he didn’t mean what he said. He would’ve reminded him that he was right; that he knew he’d rather pretend to be with him than explore this uncharted territory with Brian that was bound to end in disaster. He didn’t, though. He accepted what Roger had been trying to tell him all along and that was the end of it.</p><p><em>Get out,</em> Tim said. <em>Leave.</em> Although those words had slipped past his lips before, this time was different. Roger couldn't tell if he actually meant it or not, and what scared him even more were the possibilities that their separation would allow. The blonde could think of a thousand things, and instead of asking Tim point-blank what he was planning on doing without him, he acquiesced to the brunette's embittered command and left, catching Geoff and John Lennon on his way out and going out for drinks with the latter. Whether it was just because John was headed out himself or not, Roger would never know, because the rest of his afternoon and evening was history. If Brian hadn’t been at Freddie’s when he showed up, there was a good chance that this night would’ve been a gap in his memory too, but there they were, lying on the couch together, knowing that when the sun rose and the next day dawned, they would never be able to go back to the way things were; the way things needed to be.</p><p>“What about him?” the professor entertained, lifting his head ever so slightly to meet Roger’s gaze that hadn’t left the ceiling.</p><p>He heaved a shaky sigh.</p><p>“I think he’s gonna kill me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What do you mean he’s going to kill you?” the professor shot back with an unexpected burst of energy, the shock with which the blonde’s statement was met ripping him away from and out of Roger. The blonde grunted at the sudden loss, the inevitable soreness spreading through him faster than it would’ve had Brian taken his time like he did upon entering. He squirmed uncomfortably, letting the professor’s question go unanswered as he wallowed in the discomfort that his confession inflicted upon him.</p><p>“Well?” Brian urged.</p><p>Roger let out a frustrated sigh and sat himself up on his elbows, meeting the curly-haired man’s concerned gaze and explaining, “I just have this bad feeling, Brian, okay? Something’s not right. He didn’t seem like himself when I saw him today.”</p><p>“And so that means he’s going to kill you?” he tried to understand. He’d only had so many interactions with the brunette in question, none of them pleasant, but the professor didn’t think the man was capable of murder—especially the murder of the boyfriend he was so possessive over.</p><p>The blonde groaned. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Brian propped his arm atop the back of the couch and rested his head in his hand, trying to find the answer Roger clearly wanted him to discover. The problem was, Brian didn’t know Tim like Roger did. He didn’t know how to bring him back from the ledge; to talk him down from his moments of passionate spontaneity. Whether that spontaneity be positive or negative, it didn’t matter. Only Roger knew how to keep Tim at bay, but lately he’d grown tired of that responsibility. After all, he’d been doing it for ten years.</p><p>He wanted more out of life than to be his boyfriend’s babysitter; they were adults, for crying out loud. The days of their youth were long behind them, and as much as they might’ve liked things to be the way they used to be, Roger and Tim were no longer the two teenage boys who spent their days holed up in the latter’s bedroom, lying on his messy mattress, drinking their afternoons away, and stealing kisses behind closed doors. They didn’t have many friends back then; and even now, the only “friend” they—or really, just Roger—could name was Freddie. All they had was each other, which perhaps could be why this was all so difficult for the blonde.</p><p>Yes, he wanted to be more independent, and yes, the thought of wasting another day worrying about Tim made him sick to his empty stomach, but being there for the brunette was all he’d ever known. He hadn’t realized it yet, but he wasn’t ready to abandon his best friend, the only person who stood by his side when his family kicked him out; when Tim’s dad found out about them and kicked him out too.</p><p>It was sad, but Tim was one of the only constants—if not the <em>only </em>constant—in Roger’s life. Being who he was and doing what he did, one day could be drastically different from the next, but Roger could always count on coming home and seeing Tim. It didn’t matter if he was in a good mood or a bad mood; if he had showered or spent all day in bed and reeked of liquor. Seeing him came as a relief to the blonde, knowing that he was there—that he’d <em>always </em>be there. Could he say the same about Brian?</p><p>“You told Tim you didn’t want to be with him today, right?” the professor finally blurted out, lifting Roger’s gaze from his lap.</p><p>“Yeah,” the blonde muttered shamefully, as if he wished he could take back what he said, take back <em>everything</em> he’d said that got him to this moment right here. He wished he could take back his “Hey man, do you happen to know where I can find...Christine Mullen? I guess she’s the headmaster or mistress or something.” He even wished he could take back his "But isn't your wife due back soon?" that sparked this whole mess.</p><p>“And you thought you didn’t mean it, but Tim said you did,” Brian repeated the story that Roger had told him. He nodded his head in affirmation, prompting Brian to ask, “Well what about me?”</p><p>The blonde’s eyebrows knit together. “What about you?”</p><p>“Do you want to be with me?” he elaborated, that classic redness creeping up in his cheeks. “I mean, you know I want to be with you. I wrote a whole fucking song about it.” He threw his hand at the notebook that lay flat on the ground, its page bent at the corner. “And I’ll probably write ten, twenty more, but what about you? Do <em>you</em> want to be with <em>me</em>?”</p><p>The question weighed heavily on Roger’s shoulders, commitment being something that he hadn’t had to think about since Tim suggested they get married. He’d never been fond of the idea of settling down with someone, and the only reason he’d stuck with Tim for so long was because he didn’t see it as “settling down.” It was just the way things were. There was no discussion about becoming each other’s boyfriends; there was no discussion about exclusivity—only arguments over Tim using brief affairs as punishments for Roger’s “bad behavior.”</p><p>Their relationship didn’t function like a conventional relationship; perhaps because they weren’t conventional people. Brian was, though, and the only path he saw him and Roger taking was a path that Roger had no desire to go down. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be with the professor, and it wasn’t that he wasn’t in need of a change. It was that he knew how dangerous that path was going to be. He’d already lived in the world Brian thought he wanted to live in; he knew how people were treated and the risks that came with pursuing the life the professor saw for the two of them. Brian didn’t know any of that. He was naïve, innocent, and unprepared for what being together really meant. Roger had to say no, for Brian’s sake, yet he couldn’t find the words. He never could find the words.</p><p>“That’s a silly question,” he finally answered with a nervous chuckle.</p><p>“I don’t think it is, Roger,” the professor disagreed, yanking his trousers back up over his waist. “I’d say it’s actually very important.” He struggled to zip his pants but eventually succeeded, leaning back into the couch and tipping his head towards the still half naked blonde whose face had drained of all color. “Because it’s never going to work out for us if you can’t answer that question.”</p><p>Roger dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling, wishing that Brian was still lying on his chest and that he was running his fingers through his hair. They were way past that moment, though. Their situation always seemed to default to these instances, where the truth rudely interrupted and brutally severed their bliss.</p><p>“Brian, I don’t think you know what you’re asking for,” he responded after a long pause, grunting as he moved himself into an upright sitting position. Immediately, a slight pain began to spread through the lower half of his body. He bit his lower lip hard, unable to mask the discomfort that washed over his face. The professor instinctively wanted to ask if he was okay, but he refrained, fixated on the harsh accusation the blonde had just made.</p><p>Once Roger had made himself comfortable, he heaved a sigh, met Brian’s glistening eyes, and explained in an attempt to hold off the inevitable, “Look, I know you want to be with me, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be with you too, but it’s not as easy as that. You don’t know what it means to be with me; to be with a guy. It’s going to make you more of an outsider than you already are, and you know, I’m used to it. You aren’t. I just don’t want you...” He shook his head, searching for the right words. He found some that were good enough with a shrug. “I just don’t want you regretting your choice.”</p><p>“Why do you think I’ll regret it?”</p><p>“Because I’m afraid I will!” he snapped, the words shooting out from his mouth like gunfire. Brian leaned back as Roger buried his face in his hands, continuing to stall in a pained whisper, “You just don’t know what it’s like, Bri.” He dragged his fingers down his cheeks and dropped his hands into his lap. With his shoulders slumped and his attention focused on the zipper of his pants, he revealed, “Tim and I had to find out the hard way what it meant for us to be together. I mean, we literally lost everything but each other, and...and I don’t want to see you go through that. You’ve got so much more to lose than either of us did.”</p><p>The professor moved closer to him. “But what if I want—”</p><p>“You don’t,” Roger cut him short, the coldness that accompanied his response and the look he gave him sending a shiver down Brian’s back. “Trust me. You don’t, and I don’t either.”</p><p>“Well, we can’t keep going on like this forever, Rog,” Brian argued, a weighted reasonableness to his voice. “I’m tired of always being the one willing to take the risk, here.”</p><p>The blonde fell silent, staring at the professor with eyes that now matched his. Although Roger had always been aware of what was at stake for Brian—hence his ongoing avoidance of pursuing a full-fledged relationship with him—he hadn’t taken into consideration the fact that the professor was aware of it too.</p><p>Before, Brian had let Chrissie and their then unborn child drag him back home and force him to give up on the one person who provided him some clarity in the blurry world he lived in, but now he was ready to leave them behind. It wasn’t a matter about doing the right thing anymore, because the right thing wasn’t going to make up for all the betrayal that both Brian and Chrissie had committed. Staying together, acting like the happy family they weren’t, the only thing the façade would be successful in was drawing out their shared misery.</p><p>It had become increasingly clear to both parties that the other wanted to be with someone else, and the way Brian saw it—if Liz really wasn’t his—there was nothing to stop him from being with Roger. Yet there the professor found himself, sitting on the couch with the blonde, fighting for the relationship he’d wanted ever since Roger left for New York.</p><p>“It’s time you take a risk and do what you’ve been meaning to for over a year now,” Brian tacked on to his previous statement, taking one of Roger’s hands in his and brushing his thumb across the blonde’s knuckles. He stared at their intertwined fingers for a bit before shifting his gaze to Roger’s face, a small, reassuring grin twitching at the corner of his lips. “You’ve already got a good start on it—you know, coming back to London and choosing music over...well...you know...” The blonde couldn’t hold back the smirk that curled his lips at the professor’s innocence preventing him from saying what he really meant—<em>prostitution</em>. “But now you have to bring it home. Leave him and be with me. I don’t care what other people are going to think or say; I don’t care what happens, so long as I don’t lose you again.” He gently squeezed Roger’s hand, the blonde’s face softening as he took his turn to stare at their joined hands.</p><p>Roger couldn’t bring himself to say it, but he didn’t want to lose Brian either. Being away from him for a year was harder than he could’ve ever imagined, and the only reason he hadn’t gone absolutely mad in New York was because he was so busy handling two jobs, that he didn’t have time to wallow in his own pity. The city that never slept kept him preoccupied. If he wasn’t working, he was on the subway either headed home or to the next job. If he wasn’t home, he was taking the subway, on his way to work. There was rarely an in between.</p><p>It never dawned on him before how monotonous his life had become, and having had that epiphany, he realized how much he dreaded going back there after this band thing had run its course. It wasn’t that he wanted to go back—far from it—but he knew he couldn’t stay in London for much longer either, especially with Tim lurking in the shadows. His reputation was bound to catch up with him, and if word inevitably got around that he dabbled in the same taboo behavior in the States, even if he’d only done it over the phone or once in person, he’d be done for.</p><p>Brian was yet again his only escape, and just like before, Roger was reluctant. The only difference between then and now was that they weren’t sitting outside the university in the freezing cold. They were sitting in Freddie’s living room, with Roger’s pants in a heap on the ground, next to the notebook that spelled out the professor’s feelings and reflected his.</p><p>“What if she’s yours?” the blonde wondered aloud, masking his true concerns with Brian’s. What he really wanted to say was: <em>What if Tim </em>is <em>planning something? Will you stay by my side like a fool, or will you be smart and leave me like last time because you know deep down this isn’t right? You said this isn’t going to work, but do you actually believe it? Or do you really believe that the two of us have a chance? You and I both know you’re not a risk taker, Brian. You just don’t like dealing with tough situations. You want easy ways out. Liz was your out last time; this time, it’s me. I’m not the answer to your problems.</em></p><p>Brian pressed his lips together, dropping his head and answering, “I-I’ll figure it out. I’m always going to love her, no matter what, and...and I want to make sure she’s taken care of. Just like you.” His gaze flickered back up to Roger’s. “But first I need to know that you’re really going to leave him.” He slipped one of his hands out from underneath Roger’s and used it to tuck a short piece of loose hair behind the blonde’s ear. “For good.”</p><p>The blonde’s cheeks burned up and, making the same mistake he did a year ago, he feigned a grin at Brian’s sudden change in behavior and muttered, “Okay.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>After going for another romp on the couch, the passionate moment spurred by the blonde’s halfhearted promise, the two finally realized how late it was. “Bloody hell,” Brian cursed under his breath as he tugged at his zipper and hastily fixed his belt. “I’ve got to get home. Chrissie’s probably worried sick about me.” That last bit was added out of habit; the professor didn’t <em>actually</em> think his wife was still up, waiting for him to return home, and if she was, it was only to try and continue their conversation from before. He had a feeling, though, that neither of them would be up for it.</p><p>Roger watched with tightly pressed lips as Brian snatched his notebook up off the ground and started for the door, waiting until the professor’s coat had been draped over his shoulders and his hand wrapped around the cold doorknob to blurt out the thought that popped into his mind while the professor was pounding into him with a force he didn’t have the first time around. “Did you really mean it?” </p><p>Brian turned his head over his shoulder, meeting Roger’s tentative gaze in the living room. “Mean what?”</p><p>“That you didn’t want me going to the show.”</p><p>The professor’s cheeks grew warm, for so much had transpired since he first laid eyes on the drunken blonde who’d sobered up enough to remember what he had forgotten. His immediate response was to say yes, but that would be hypocritical. He already broke his promise to Chrissie, to not do something bad. He did the worst thing he could possibly do aside from running away with him; not once, but twice. What good would trying to mend it do now?</p><p>However, Brian couldn’t bring himself to say no either. There was no telling what was going to happen when he, Chrissie, and Roger would find themselves in the same room again. The last time they were all together was a year ago, at the Imperial College faculty Christmas party. That night changed everything for the professor—for better <em>and </em>for worse—and he was afraid that, if they were to wind up in a similar situation again, everything would change once more. He didn’t know what he would lose or gain this time around, and quite frankly, he didn’t want to find out.</p><p>At the same time, he remembered how controlling Tim was of Roger, and how much the blonde resented the fact that the brunette made all his decisions for him, letting him choose something every now and then only as a joke. <em>Sure, you can take the little gig at the school, but your tights and your skirt will be right here on the bed for you when it doesn’t work out. Sure, you can run off with the stupid professor, but the door will be unlocked for when he leaves you for his girlfriend. </em>Now it was Brian saying those things: <em>Sure, you can play your show, but my offer will be here for you when your silly little dream dies.</em></p><p>So, after a short pause that seemed a lot longer than it actually was, Brian answered, “I just don’t want things to be awkward, Roger.”</p><p>“Well, then I’m not the one you have to worry about, Brian,” the blonde responded, pivoting his torso and grabbing onto the back of the couch so that he could rest his chin atop his knuckles. His baby blues glistened in the dim lighting, and the corner of his lips twitched upward in a reluctant grin.</p><p>The tension that grew between them was electric, and not in the way that it had been before, when the two of them were both still on the couch, sitting side by side, their lips but centimeters apart. This energy was different, uncomfortable even, because Brian knew what Roger wanted to say next but wouldn’t: <em>It’s you that you have to worry about.</em></p><p>Overwhelmed by this unspoken truth, Brian turned his back to Roger and left the house without saying another word. The door slammed shut behind him and wiped the smile from the blonde’s face almost instantly. Like a child frightened by a parent leaving for work and never coming back, Roger jumped up from the couch and scrambled to the front door, holding his hands over his exposed front and watching as Brian hopped in his car—something that Roger failed to notice sitting in the driveway in his previously drunken state.</p><p>He lost himself in the professor and the vehicle, which sputtered to life in the middle of the night and lost one of its headlights upon being turned on. Brian didn’t seem to care, though, more concerned with getting home before the clock on his dashboard changed from reading <strong>2:39 </strong>to <strong>3:00</strong> than getting home safely. Roger’s eyes followed the rust bucket to the end of the street, and just as it disappeared around the corner, an unexpected voice tickled his ear.</p><p>“You love him, don’t you?”</p><p>The blonde’s head snapped over his shoulder, where his startled gaze fell upon Mary. She stood behind him with her arms crossed over her chest, one hand tucked underneath the opposite arm and the other holding onto a nearly empty wine glass. Her eyes shifted from the street corner that consumed Brian and his car to Roger’s wide, terrified baby blues, her lips resisting the smirk that dared to tug at them.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Mary,” Roger mumbled, nervously tightening his grip on himself. “When did you get here?”</p><p>“Not that long ago,” she answered honestly, bringing the wine glass to her mouth and letting the last few drops roll over her tongue and down her throat. Freddie’s fiancé smacked her lips and stared at her empty glass in disappointment. She swung the stem side to side for a little before pouting and asking, “How did you know?”</p><p>Roger’s eyebrows drew closer together. “How did I know what?”</p><p>“That you were gay,” she replied without skipping a beat. Roger was struck by the genuineness to her response. <em>It had to be the wine, </em>he thought, for he and Mary rarely had conversations just the two of them. On the off chance that they found themselves engaging in small talk, it was only in Freddie’s presence. The two couldn’t stand each other otherwise, yet there Roger was, alone in the foyer with Mary, who’d ask him point blank how he knew he was gay when, really, she wanted to ask him: <em>What are the signs?</em></p><p>“Oh,” the blonde muttered.</p><p>“Yeah.” She tilted her head down, hoping to hide the shame that spread across her face.</p><p>Roger bit his lip as silence fell over the house, all but the sound of the television upstairs. The blonde knew what that meant—that he and Brian hadn’t been as quiet as they’d hoped to be. With blushing cheeks, he finally found the courage to reply, “Um...I-I don’t know how. I just...I found myself...” He couldn’t find the words to answer her question honestly, and so he stopped himself short and asked instead, “Why do you want to know?”</p><p>Mary took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, her tired eyes flickering up to meet Roger’s as she gravely revealed, “I think Freddie’s gay, Roger.”</p><p>He couldn’t hold back the laughter that emanated from the back of his throat, his hands flying up from his groin to his mouth. Mary’s stare narrowed, wordlessly urging the blonde to search the foyer for something he could temporarily cover himself up with. His eyes locked on a bright yellow jacket with black strips that had been hanging from the coat rack, and before he knew it, his hands were leaving his body and reaching out for the garment, hastily tying it around his waist. He flashed his host a timid grin, hoping it would lessen the intensity of her glare. It did not, but her eye roll was a nice, brief alternative. </p><p>Roger felt very awkward standing in the foyer with Mary and couldn’t find a comfortable way to carry on the chat. He settled on resting his hands on his hips, and the words that had escaped him earlier returned. “You don’t say.”</p><p>“Oh, forget it,” she grumbled, throwing her hands up in defeat.</p><p>“Mary, wait!” the blonde called out to her as she slipped into the kitchen and popped open the refrigerator. He stopped in the doorway and sighed. “What makes you think he’s gay? Did something happen? Did someone say something?”</p><p>“I said forget it, Roger.” Mary closed the fridge with so much force the two could hear the items on the shelves built into the door rattle. The blonde watched as the hostess fell back against the counter. He hoped she would break down and give him a better answer, even though he already had a pretty good idea of what could’ve caused her to finally jump to her conclusion: <em>his clothes, his attitude, his affairs with men, his initial eagerness to plan this wedding that’s never going to happen. </em>Any answer would do, really, but Roger was interested in seeing what finally changed that made Mary see for herself what everyone else had already been seeing for years.</p><p>She wouldn’t give him that answer, though, opting instead to yank the cork out from the spout and bring the bottle right to her lips. Without stopping for air, Mary swallowed every last bit of wine that it contained, wiping her stained lips with the back of her wrist and setting the bottle down on the counter.</p><p>Freddie’s fiancé made it clear that she wasn’t going to say another word on the matter as she brushed shoulders with Roger and retreated to hers and Freddie’s bedroom. However, before she walked past the blonde entirely, she stopped beside him and grabbed onto his arm, whispering in his ear, “I don’t care what you have to do to get it—dress as a fucking girl or pose as a stupid music instructor—but you’re buying me a new couch.”</p><p>Roger chuckled and sarcastically replied, “Okay, Mary,” though he knew she wasn’t joking. How? He caught the muttered “filthy bastard” under her breath as she trudged upstairs, having caught a quick glimpse of her desecrated living room.</p><p>The blonde, abandoned for the second time that night, hung his head. He looked back in hopes that Freddie maybe had come down, but he heard no footsteps and saw no one. He truly was alone, and the decision Brian had left him with returned with full force.</p><p>Roger didn’t know which felt worse, wanting to leave Tim himself or being told that he had to. He felt guilty, wanting to leave his boyfriend on his own accord, but a great sense of anger overcame him at the thought of someone else imploring him to do it. He knew things were bad between him and Tim, god knows he did, but he hated that someone—<em>everyone</em> else knew, and he hated even more that everyone expected him to accept the solution as easily as they did. No matter how much they knew about Tim and Roger’s relationship, they thought that the blonde could just leave the brunette behind. Roger began to wonder if Tim had started to feel the same way, thinking that he’d be able to just walk out and not look back.</p><p>Maybe that’s why he was so cold to him at Nana’s, not wanting to hear him out when he tried to tell him he didn’t mean it when he said he didn’t want to pretend to be with him anymore. The old Tim would’ve never done that. The old Tim’s face would’ve dropped, and instead of taking the blonde’s words to heart, he would’ve laughed and said, <em>Yeah, I know you didn’t mean it, and you’re going to make it up to me by getting on your knees and sucking me off like the sorry fag you are. </em>That’s not what happened, though.</p><p>What happened was something Roger didn’t understand, partially because he couldn’t comprehend the exchange that the two of them had shared and partially because he drank the better part of his day away promptly afterwards. He was left with bits and fragments, pieces that didn’t fit together, and to add to the unsolvable puzzle was everything that happened with Brian—the request that he not go to the show, the song he’d written about him, the sex they had not once but twice, and the sudden rescindment of that first request. His head was spinning and all he could do was hope that, come tomorrow, this mess would sort itself out—whatever the outcome may be.</p><p>*****</p><p>“Phone call for Mr. Roger Taylor,” Freddie sang into the blonde’s ear, startling him awake and bringing attention to the pain that surged through Roger’s back from sleeping on the couch. However, the pain wouldn’t have the chance to be acknowledged as the dark-haired man’s eyes traveled down to his friend’s torso and doubled in size, Freddie instantly recognizing the article of clothing Roger still had wrapped around his waist. He gasped. “Is that my—”</p><p>“Who’d you say it was?” Roger cut Freddie off, snatching the telephone out of his hand and bringing it up to his ear before he could receive an answer. It wasn’t like he was going to get one anyways, his friend too concerned with the jacket covering the blonde’s lower half. Just as Freddie parted his lips to interrogate him about it, Roger cupped his hand around the bottom half of the phone and asked, “Hello?”</p><p><em>“Roger, thank god you’re there,” </em>Stewart’s voice sounded through the speaker. <em>“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning!”</em></p><p>The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. “Wait, what time is it? And more importantly, how’d you get this number?”</p><p><em>“Ever heard of a thing called an operator, Rog?” </em>the other blonde joked, neglecting to inform him of the hour. It seemed inconsequential, though.</p><p>“Well, yeah, but...how’d you know I be here?” A blush washed over Roger’s cheeks.</p><p>Before the drummer could tell him that he told him at the airport when they first arrived that he’d be staying with Freddie, the man in question yanked the coat from around Roger’s waist and flipped the blonde off the couch. The phone flew out of his hand as a result, and his bare ass became exposed. Roger couldn’t resist the loud, “What the fuck?” that slipped past his lips as his head jerked up and his eyes met Freddie’s stuck-out tongue. The petty friend sauntered off, leaving Roger to pick himself up from the ground and slip into the pants he had bunched up at the farthest end of the couch. After zipping his fly with an aggravated eye roll, he circled the piece of furniture and retrieved the phone that was slingshot into the entryway and landed among the pile of mismatched shoes. “Stewart? You there?”</p><p>
  <em>“What the hell was all that?” </em>
</p><p>“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” the blonde rattled off, slipping his free hand into the pockets of his pants and changing the subject with a simple, “What’s up?”</p><p>
  <em>“Well, Sting and I were hoping to rehearse this morning. Do you think you can be at Royal College—”</em>
</p><p><em>“Imperial College!” </em>Sting chimed in, though his voice was much quieter than Stewart’s. <em>“We’re at Imperial College, you idiot. Not fucking Royal College. Jesus...”</em></p><p><em>“Right, Imperial College,” </em>Stewart echoed his bandmate. His annoyed eye roll was heard in the pause that impregnated the conversation before he turned his attention back to Roger and asked, <em>“Can you be at Imperial College in, like, the next half hour? We want to go through the set list with you and make sure we’re good to go for tonight.”</em></p><p>“I-I...sure,” the blonde stammered, nodding his head as if Stewart could actually see him. “I’ll be there soon.”</p><p>
  <em>“Great. See you then!”</em>
</p><p>With that, the line was cut and Roger looked into the kitchen where Mary had been standing, leaned against the counter just like she was the night before, but this time, instead of a bottle of wine in her hands, there was a teacup. Her frigid gaze cut through Roger like a knife, sending a chill down his spine as he dared to enter the room and place the phone back in its cradle.</p><p>“Who was that?” she inquired, taking a sip of the steaming beverage while not breaking her stare with the blonde.</p><p>“A guy from the band,” he answered uneasily, taking another risk by venturing farther into the room to grab himself a cup of tea. Just like Mary, his eyes didn’t leave hers once as he picked the kettle up off the stove and poured himself a cup, adding, “He wants to practice for the show tonight.”</p><p>“Too bad you’re out of a ride,” she sniggered, the corner of her lip pricking upward into a malevolent smirk. “Freddie and I have plans this morning to pick out the flowers for our wedding.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s still happening?” Roger shot back, unwilling to let her be the only one allowed to play dirty. “I thought you might have called it off after what you told me last night. You know, since—”</p><p>“Freddie!” Mary exclaimed, swapping out her smirk for a wide, welcoming grin. Roger glanced back and watched as the dark-haired man waltzed into the room, joining his side and pushing a teacup and saucer down the counter—the porcelain clinking with Roger’s and sending ripples across the surface of the hot amber-colored liquid. Without even having to ask, the blonde poured his friend a cup. Freddie refused to express his gratitude as he snatched the teacup up off the saucer and brought it to his lips.</p><p>Mary cleared her throat and attracted the attention of both men, her eyes locked on her fiancé as she asked, “Are you looking forward to going to the florist today, Fred?”</p><p>“Of course, dear,” he lied, flashing her his most convincing smile. “I’m looking forward to Rog’s show tonight too.” The dark-haired man shifted his gaze from Mary to the blonde, tacking on, “Just as soon as I forgive him for absolutely ruining my favorite jacket.”</p><p>Roger scoffed. “Oh, come on. All your jackets are your favorite, and I didn’t ruin it!” he cried out in defense. “I just used it to—”</p><p>“I don’t want to know, darling,” Freddie interrupted him, raising his hand to silence him. “Just like I don’t want to know what you and Brian did in our living room last night.”</p><p>“He’s getting us a new couch,” his fiancé bitterly interjected.</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes and told Freddie, “I need a ride to the college to practice with the guys. Do you think you can convince Miss Stick-Up-Her-Ass to drive me there?” He nodded his head in Mary’s direction.</p><p>Before she could object, Freddie replied, “I mean, I don’t see why we couldn’t drop him off on our way to the florist. I’m sure it’s not too far out of the way.” He looked over at his clearly unhappy fiancé. “Right, Mary?”</p><p>“I don’t know, Freddie,” she growled through clenched teeth. “We’re already cutting it pretty close. I don’t think we’d have time.”</p><p>“Come on, Mary,” the dark-haired man tried to persuade her. “It’s one ride, and we can just explain to the—”</p><p>“No!” she snapped, her eyes so wide the blonde thought for sure they’d pop out of their sockets.</p><p>Freddie sighed and turned his attention to his best friend, winking at him and whispering, “We’ll drop you off.”</p><p>Mary grunted and threw her teacup into the sink, storming out of the room and retracing the steps she took last night up the stairs. Freddie and Roger shared an amused grin before the latter cleared his throat and said, “I think she knows, Fred.”</p><p>“Oh, I know,” the dark-haired man affirmed, taking a quick sip of his tea before adding, “But we agreed not to talk about it.”</p><p>The blonde chuckled in disbelief. “So what, you guys are still going to get married even though you’re...and she...?”</p><p>“Yup,” he murmured, downing the hot beverage in one sip before smacking his lips and patting his friend hard on the shoulder. “Now let’s just get you to that school. You’ve got a show tonight.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys! So here's the updated/revised Chapter 27 that I told you I was going to work on. For those of you who've already read it, the first half is pretty much the same. It's the second half that I reworked, so hopefully you like it! Thanks for reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was nearly ten o’clock by the time Brian stirred awake, his head pounding as he discovered that he’d crawled into bed the night before—or really, earlier that morning—with his clothes still on from yesterday. He reeked of cigarettes and sex, and he could only imagine the reaction Chrissie had when he joined her underneath the covers. Whether that reaction happened while it was still dark out or after the sun had peeked over the horizon, he would never know, but what he did know was that she couldn’t have been too happy about it.</p><p>Taking a quick shower, the professor descended the stairs with water droplets clinging for dear life to the ends of his curls. He froze, however, when he reached the bottom steps—the soft sound of Chrissie’s voice stopping him dead in his tracks.</p><p><em>“I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight too,” </em>she whispered, the smile that curled her lips at the corners reaching the other end of the line just the same as her words.</p><p>A short pause ensued, followed by an infectious giggle. <em>“No, no, it’ll probably just be me. He and Sting can’t </em>stand<em> each other.”</em></p><p>In an instant, Brian knew who Chrissie was talking with, and what they were talking about. He was prepared to yell at her, call her a hypocrite, and throw his hands in the air and say, “It’s over,” but as soon as he swung around the banister to do so, something Chrissie had said to him earlier popped into his head: <em>Promise me that you won’t do anything. You can like him all you want, I don’t care, but leave it to those words on the page. </em>She had asked him to suppress his feelings and resist from giving into his impulses, yet there she was in their kitchen, putting forth no effort in suppressing hers and giving into her impulses without a second thought. She was deliberately planning to go behind his back, and Brian saw it only fair that he hold her to the same standards that she held him to.</p><p>A smirk tugged at the professor’s lips as he entered the kitchen and approached Liz in her highchair, the baby girl prodding and sorting the Cheerios scattered about her tray. He bent down and planted a kiss atop her head, glancing at Chrissie out of the corner of his eye. It didn’t take long for the headmistress to notice, her face turning pale as she rattled off a reason why she had to go into the bottom half of the phone. Shortly after, she hung the phone up on its receiver and flashed Brian an anxious grin.</p><p>“Hey,” she greeted timidly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.</p><p>“Hey,” he echoed, the corner of his lips pricking upward just ever so slightly. He had started to pick up the loose pieces of cereal, dropping them back in the bowl they were originally contained in one by one. “Who was that you were talking to?” the professor calmly asked, returning his attention to the task and the infant who seemed determined to prevent him from completing it.</p><p>“Oh, just an old friend,” the headmistress answered, folding her arms over her chest and leaning back against the wall.</p><p>She wasn’t <em>technically </em>lying.</p><p>“Just an old friend,” Brian repeated her once more, glancing over his shoulder at her and causing a deep blush to rise in his wife’s cheeks. “Which one?”</p><p>Chrissie chuckled nervously. “Y-You wouldn’t know him.”</p><p>“Wanna bet?” he blurted out, immediately regretting his impetuousness and hoping that perhaps he said it quick enough that the headmistress hadn’t caught it. It was obvious she did, though, and apparently so had Liz, for an awkward silence fell over them all—the little girl staring up at Brian with wide, innocent eyes. He heaved a sigh and hung his head, wrapping his hands around the highchair tray and muttering, “So, have you called my mum yet?” in hopes of breaking the tension that filled the room.</p><p>The headmistress’s eyebrows furrowed together. “What would I have done that for?”</p><p>“To see if she’d watch Liz tonight.” He turned to face her and crossed his arms. “We’re still going to Sting’s show tonight, right?”</p><p>Chrissie looked as though she just saw a ghost. “I-I didn’t think you wanted to go to that,” she stammered.</p><p>Brian laughed, contradicting his refusal the other day as he replied, “Why wouldn’t I want to go to it?” Suddenly, his face dropped, along with the light tone he carried in his voice as he gravely tacked on, “I thought we were trying to keep up appearances, here.”</p><p>Color returned to the headmistress’s face, mostly in her cheeks. It was almost as if she’d forgotten the conversation they had right before he stormed off yesterday to go confront Roger about being in the band. It seemed unlikely that she would’ve forgotten about it. The only possible explanation that Brian could think of was that, because he asked her to keep herself in check, instead of her asking him, their talk went straight over her head.</p><p>From personal experience, however, Brian doubted that was the case. Those conversations always weighed heavy on his heart, and even though their relationship had changed drastically, he imagined they still carried their weight. Ever since Stewart came into the picture, though—or really, the conversation, for Brian had yet to meet the man—it was like Chrissie didn’t care as much about the consequences of someone finding out about either her or her husband’s infidelities.</p><p>Perhaps she had grown too confident in acting like everything was fine. Hell, she probably already had an answer to give her colleagues when they would ask her at the show they’d all been invited to, “Where’s your husband?” <em>He isn’t feeling well. We couldn’t find a sitter for Liz, so he offered to stay home. This isn’t really his kind of scene. </em>Any of the excuses could’ve worked, but how would they hold up when someone burst into the dressing room and found the two of them grinding against each other, biting and sucking at each other’s lips, and groping each other in a way that only Brian and her—as a married couple—should?</p><p>“I just didn’t think you’d want to go,” the headmistress muttered.</p><p>“Because of Sting?” the professor guessed, hoping she would pick up on the fact that he had overheard her phone conversation; hoping that she would continue their talk from yesterday and have it lead to a screaming match where the one of them would suggest that they get a divorce and the other would agree.</p><p>Realizing that he wanted such a destructive outcome terrified Brian. He had never thought about getting a divorce before. He knew Chrissie did; it was one of the reasons she came back to him after leaving that one night. <em>I just thought that, with everything that happened, we were going to get a divorce, and I started thinking about raising Liz on my own, and I just...I don’t think I can do it alone. I don’t </em>want<em> to do it alone. I want to do it with you. </em></p><p>Brian couldn’t believe that he was in her shoes now, having to deal with the possibility that his spouse was going to leave him for someone else. The tables had turned, and he didn’t know what to do: keep her close or let her go. He told Roger he didn’t care what other people thought, but that was when it was just the two of them, alone in Fred’s living room, safe from the nasty world that awaited them outside. Now, standing in his kitchen with Chrissie, thinking about what it would mean if his wife went to the show tonight without him, he couldn’t stand behind his claim. Wondering about what people would say if their colleagues only found Chrissie in that crowd proved that Brian <em>did </em>care what people thought, and before his mind had the chance to spiral out of control and make him doubt everything he’d been doing and saying since Roger showed up, the headmistress responded to his question.</p><p>“No, Bri, it’s not—” Chrissie ran a hand through her hair. “Look, I just hoped you wouldn’t want to go because—” she sighed and dropped her arm back down to her side, confessing, “—well, because you-know-who’s going to be there, and I honestly don’t trust you to keep away from him.”</p><p>“Oh, bullshit!” Brian snapped, startling his wife back into the wall and drawing a faint <em>ding </em>from the old telephone. “You and I both know that’s not the reason you don’t want me going.”</p><p>“Then what is the reason?” she shouted, throwing her hands in the air before resting them on her hips. “Tell me what the reason is, Brian, because clearly I don’t know.”</p><p><em>Yes, you do know, </em>he wanted to tell her. <em>You just don’t want to admit that the real you-know-who here isn’t Roger. It’s Stewart, and the real reason you don’t want me to go is because you didn’t want any trouble seeing him tonight. You wanted to go to the concert, leave your ring at home, and have yourself a grand old time with Mr. Unstable, Mr. I-Can’t-Support-You, all without me knowing because I’m naïve, right? I don’t know any better. I’m just the gullible professor who believed you when you said you were unhappy in your </em>arranged<em> marriage; who believed you when you said you were having my child; and who believed you when you said you wanted to give this an honest second go</em>. <em>I believed you because I thought you could do no wrong. You were perfect; everything I ever wanted. You would never hurt me the way I hurt you. Never. </em></p><p>Instead of expressing all that, and surely avoiding the harsh smack he’d earn across the face, he laughed in disbelief. “You know, Chrissie, I think it’s really unfair of you to tell me that I can’t be true about my feelings and then lie straight to my face about why you don’t want me going.”</p><p>“It’s just not right!” she cried, all the emotions she bottled up from yesterday’s conversation that had festered overnight as she lied alone in bed—picturing Brian and Roger touching one another, kissing one another, fucking one another—finally pouring out. She knew immediately, though, that her answer had only made things worse.</p><p>It also didn’t help that Liz began to cry.</p><p>“Not right?” Brian repeated, taking a step closer to her. “What do you mean ‘not right’?”</p><p>Chrissie shook her head, refusing to dig herself a deeper hole.</p><p>“We’re both in the wrong here, Chrissie,” the professor muttered, continuing to close the gap separating the two of them, “and just because you and Stewart are a man and woman doesn’t make what you’re doing any more ‘right’ than what Roger and I are doing.”</p><p>She took this opportunity to win some ground back. “So,” she stood taller, “you did go see him last night.”</p><p>Brian’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red. It would have been so easy for him to tell her that he tried to convince Roger to skip the show; that he told the blonde he wanted to be good and do the right thing. Yet all the professor could think about was what happened after that: the sharing of the song, the love they made, the fear that Tim was going to kill Roger. He couldn’t really remember what happened before all that, and so replied simply, “I did.”</p><p>The headmistress nodded her head, not saying another word before brushing past him and picking her daughter up out of her highchair. She left the room with the crying infant sitting on her hip, a bitter expression washed across her face. </p><p>Feeling there was more to be said, Brian followed after her, trailing behind her as she escaped upstairs into the nursery, where she began searching for a clean pacifier.</p><p>The professor stood in the doorway for a moment or two, quietly watching as his wife peered into every nook and cranny for the item Brian knew good and well was downstairs in the living room, right above the mantle next to one of the few pictures of the three of them—this one from the day she was born. It was a conscious choice of his not to tell her, viewing her growing frustration as punishment for her double standards. Instead, he said, “I don’t know what you want me to do, Chrissie.”</p><p>“I told you what I wanted you to do,” she grumbled, refusing to look back at him as she continued her endless search.</p><p>“Well, I can’t do that,” he replied sternly, straightening his posture against the threshold he was using for support. “I can’t pretend that I don’t love him.”</p><p>She maintained her composure too, replying, “Then why don’t you stop pretending and go be with him?”</p><p>Brian scoffed. “Are you serious?”</p><p>“Well, you clearly don’t want to be with me, Brian, so why don’t you go be with someone you actually <em>do</em> want to be with?” Chrissie answered harshly, turning around to face her husband with a defeated sigh. The pivot of her heel was cold, sharp, something that the professor could feel all the way across the room that suddenly seemed bigger than it did before. “It’s not like you staying here is going to make you a hero or something.”</p><p>He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, choking out a strained, “I thought you wanted—”</p><p>“It doesn’t matter what I want anymore, Brian!” the headmistress shouted, startling the baby girl in her arms whose red, puffy eyes became swollen with a fresh set of tears. “There’s no way we can go back to the way things used to be. It’s just not going to happen!”</p><p>The blush in the professor’s cheeks burned the hottest it had all morning. “Then what <em>is</em> going to happen?” he asked, his voice tense.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Chrissie muttered, shaking her head and bouncing on the balls of her feet to try and soothe the upset infant crying into her shoulder. Her attention shied away from Brian’s like the plague, for if she allowed herself to witness the fear that lay behind those hazel eyes, she’d realize that she too was afraid and would start crying herself. “All I know is that I can’t keep doing this with you, and I’m sure you feel the same way about me. It’s not fair to either of us.”</p><p>A sense of déjà vu washed over Brian, the way their conversation had played out sounding eerily similar to the one he had with Roger the night before, as well as the one they had the night she decided to leave him and take Liz with her.</p><p>It disheartened the professor to think about how far the two of them had come from a year ago, when they couldn’t get enough of one another; when they looked forward to seeing each other either in passing or in secret; when they thought their bliss would last forever. Now that belief seemed foolish. Who could ever have predicted that this was where they would be, in love with other people but incapable of admitting that in fears that it would jeopardize their reputation, their image?</p><p>“I could really use a cigarette right now,” Brian mumbled under his breath, hanging his head and slipping his hands into his pockets.</p><p>“Me too,” Chrissie admitted, glancing down at her daughter who had started to calm down but still had a ways to go. Her gaze then shifted over to her husband, who’d resorted to kicking the floor as a distraction from the impending awkward silence. Suddenly, an idea popped into her head and she murmured, “Hang on a minute.”</p><p>She handed off Liz to the professor, who ripped his hands out of his pockets to grab hold of her before her mother slipped past him through the doorway. Brian spun around and watched Chrissie disappear into their bedroom. He couldn’t see her after that, but he could hear her shuffling through their drawers. Moments later, she emerged from the room with a small box in her hands and an uncharacteristically mischievous expression slathered across her face.</p><p>“What’s that?” he asked warily, his eyebrow raised in suspicion.</p><p>She smirked. “You’ll see. Just put her down and then meet me in your car.”</p><p>Before Brian could interrogate her further, Chrissie escaped downstairs without another word—the pattering of her feet down the steps and through the foyer quickly replaced with the swift slam of the front door. The professor jumped at the sound, pulling a gasp out of the baby girl in his arms. Thankfully, she didn’t break down into tears. There was just something about being in—who she knew to be—her father’s arms that provided her with a sense of security, a sense of safety, comfort. There was something about holding her too that instilled in Brian the same feeling, and although looking deep into her eyes reminded him of the possibility that she might not be his, he knew that he would always be her father—regardless of what happened after tonight.</p><p>With his magic touch, Brian was able to rock Liz to sleep, laying her gently down in her crib and tiptoeing out of the room so as to not wake her. He even took steps that were as light feathers down the stairs and closed the front door behind him with care, making it so that the only sound produced by his exit were the soft creak of the stairs beneath his feet and the muted click of the lock as the door settled in place. The professor sighed in relief and spun around to see that the windows of his car had fogged up, his wife in the passenger seat with her head tilted back and her eyes closed; her arm resting on the car door with a burning cigarette pinched between her fingers.</p><p>At first, Brian didn’t put two and two together, equating the steamy windows to the difference in temperature outside his vehicle and inside, but as soon as he opened the driver’s side door and released the pungent cloud of smoke into the atmosphere, he realized just exactly what was in the box that Chrissie had retrieved. The professor coughed and waved his hand in front of his face, his appearance attracting the headmistress’s attention and tugging at the corner of her lip.</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Chrissie,” he muttered, daring to slip into the driver’s seat—tossing the small box that had been left there into his wife’s lap—and shutting the door. “I didn’t mean <em>that </em>kind of cigarette.”</p><p>“You should try it,” she replied, extending the blunt out to him as he cracked open his window.</p><p>Brian turned his head and stared at the hand-rolled joint, his eyes flickering up to meet Chrissie’s and wordlessly asking her if it was safe. She nodded her head and brought her hand out a little further, enticing the professor to take it into his possession. Even though he eventually did, he didn’t immediately bring it to his lips. “Where’d you even get this?” he inquired, examining the white stick like he’d never seen anything like it before.</p><p>“‘Confiscated it from Debbie and Dominique earlier this semester,” the headmistress answered with a chuckle, toying with the clasp on the box. “I swear, those girls purposefully do the things they do, like they’re on a mission to annoy me.” She sat there for a bit, the smile on her face evolving into a frown. “I’m gonna miss them when they graduate, though,” she pouted. “They keep me on my toes.”</p><p>“That, they do,” Brian agreed, finally taking a drag from the blunt. As expected, it sent him into a fit of coughs that his wife found hilarious. “Not…funny…” he choked out, unable to hold back the smile that crawled onto his face or the laughter that emanated from the back of his irritated throat. A few more puffs got him more acquainted, and soon the couple had slipped into unfamiliar states of relaxation—well, unfamiliar to Brian, at least.</p><p>“Why is this so complicated?” the headmistress blurted out, now lying down—both the driver’s and passenger’s seats reclined as far back as the car would allow and their occupants staring at the ceiling with their hands folded atop their stomachs. “Wouldn’t it just be so much easier if we could just fuck whoever we wanted to fuck and have it not be a big deal?” The professor dropped his head to the side, trying to focus on her through the hazy world that consumed him. “Like, why is it necessary for us to be married to raise Liz?”</p><p>“She might not even be mine,” Brian reminded her, his tone void of the emotion that previously enhanced it.</p><p>“So what?” Chrissie met his bloodshot gaze with her own. “You’re the only one I want to raise her with, Brian. I don’t care if you…if you love Roger. Just—” She reached out and grabbed his hand, giving it a tight squeeze, “—just don’t stop loving her, okay? She loves you, and I know you love her too.”</p><p>“I do,” the professor admitted with a hundred percent honesty. The headmistress flashed him a warm grin, relinquishing her hold of his hand and returning her attention to the ceiling. Brian looked up too and stole another puff from the joint balanced between his fingers, embracing the comfortable silence that blanketed over them before asking, “Hey, can I tell you something?”</p><p>“Sure,” Chrissie hummed, plucking the blunt from his grasp and bringing it up to her lips.</p><p>“I was thinking of leaving tonight,” he confessed, “you know, grabbing Roger and running off, but…I don’t think I really want to leave.” They both shifted their gazes back to one another. “I liked what I had, what <em>we </em>had, and I know you said we can’t go back to the way things used to be, but…I think we can get back to something similar…if we really try, because I want to stay and be there for you, Chrissie, and for Liz, but I want to be able to be there for Roger too. Why can’t I do it all? Why do I have to choose?”</p><p>The headmistress stared at him in deep thought before turning on her side to get more comfortable and resting her head in her hand. “I mean, Brian, you have to. Maybe in a different place and a different time you wouldn’t, but…this is the ‘70s. If someone sees you with him…if someone finds out that you’re…they’re going to treat you differently, and I…I don’t want that to happen.” Chrissie took another drag and offered it to Brian, blowing the smoke out to the side. He shook his head in refusal, having had enough. His wife sighed before tossing the blunt to the car floor where she’d stashed the box and proposing, “What do you say we go to the show together tonight and figure this out tomorrow?” She laughed. “You know, when we’re not high and thinking about being with other people.”</p><p>Brian remained quiet, her answer to his questions playing over in his mind, getting louder and louder and becoming distorted, so much so that he almost didn’t hear her ask, “Well?”</p><p>He snapped out of the daze he’d fallen into and nodded fervently. “Yeah, I’d like that.”</p><p>“Great.” Chrissie smiled, heaving herself up with a grunt and kicking the car door open. “I’ll go call your mum.”</p><p>“Great,” the professor repeated, watching her step out into the cold and make her way back inside, hugging herself for warmth the short trip there. He reached over the center console and grabbed the joint from the floor, flicking the ash off the still burning end, bringing the stick to his lips, and inhaling deeply.</p><p>He needed all the strength he could get for tonight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I wanted to post this on Christmas, but I didn't have enough time. Hope you like it and that you had a good holiday!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“For fuck’s sake!” Roger shouted as he threw his hands in the air, letting the guitar he’d been playing hang from his shoulder. He wove his fingers into his hair and began to pace back and forth, Sting rolling his eyes and Stewart sighing in polite frustration. “I’m never going to get it,” he mumbled.</p><p>“Hey, you almost had it that time,” the drummer tried to encourage him, twirling his drumstick around in his fingers.</p><p>“And the fifty times before that,” Sting muttered sarcastically under his breath, shooting a glare in Roger’s direction and toying with the strings on his bass—a low hum resonating from the small speaker he’d brought from home. The three men had taken up shop in the small room in the basement of Imperial College that the blonde almost didn’t recognize upon entering.</p><p>There was a tidy, straightness to it now that Roger could never have achieved in his short time there—not that order and organization were ever his strong suits. The desk was clean, with not a loose sheet or pencil in sight. The three guitars Brian had brought in for lessons—one acoustic, one electric, and one twelve-string—were neatly arranged in a straight line against the wall—the stands they rested against equally distant from each other—and the piano was neatly situated in the far corner, its bench tucked snugly beneath its keys.</p><p>Roger could tell that it wasn’t the same piano he brought down last winter, though. The ivory keys that the blonde fell against as the professor rushed him for a kiss were too shiny and untouched for it to be the same. <em>He must’ve gotten her to buy a new one</em>, he figured, same as with the collection of sheet music that was sorted alphabetically by cubby. Roger didn’t have any of that when he was the music instructor. He had to use the piano that was in the staff room and whipped up everything by hand (not that there was much for him to transcribe; after all, he <em>did </em>only have one student).</p><p>The arrangement sparked a bit of jealousy in the blonde, who wished that things could go back to the way they were a year ago. He resented the position he put himself in, working two jobs in a country he thought he would like but turned out to hate and then leaving those jobs to pursue a gig he thought would give him the opportunity he’d always wanted, and for the most part it had, but he couldn’t enjoy it with Tim and Brian constantly on his mind.</p><p>“Can we just try it one more time?” Roger pleaded with crimson red cheeks.</p><p>“You know, why don’t we take ten?” Stewart suggested, standing up from the stool he’d been perched on for the better part of the last five hours.</p><p>“Okay, but the show’s in three hours,” the bassist snapped. “You’re all aware of this, right? If we don’t get this set down, we’re never going to be able to show our faces around London ever again. Is that what you want?”</p><p>The drummer scoffed, joining his friend’s side. “Oh, stop being so dramatic.” He dropped his hand on Sting’s shoulder and gave it a slight, reassuring squeeze. “He’s gonna get it.” His gaze shifted over to Roger, causing a blush to instantly rise in the blonde’s cheeks. “I know he will.”</p><p>Sting threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine. Let’s take ten.” Roger started to set his guitar down, only to be stopped before the instrument could touch its stand—Sting throwing a finger in his direction and saying, “Except you. You’re going to stay here and learn your parts.”</p><p>“But—”</p><p>“Learn your parts, blondie,” he repeated, a distinctive sternness to his voice.</p><p>Roger met Stewart’s pitying gaze, hoping the drummer would convince the bassist to let him take a break too, but all he did was give him a helpless shrug and followed his friend out into the hallway. When the door closed behind the pair, the blonde heaved a sigh and draped the guitar back over his shoulders.</p><p>He began strumming the first few chords of the song they’d been working on and quietly sung Sting’s vocals that played in his ears like a broken record. As he did so, he wandered over to the desk and leaned against it, allowing his attention to drift to the photograph tucked beneath the mug holding the professor’s pens and pencils. His fingers fell off the guitar strings and grabbed the photo, bringing it closer to see that it was the picture he had sent Brian before returning to London.</p><p>Roger remembered the night he snapped the photo. Tim was fast asleep, sprawled out across the whole mattress, and the blonde had just come home from a long night at the bar. Seeing that there was no place for him in bed, Roger thought he’d kill some time in the bathroom, figuring that by the time he came out, Tim would have repositioned himself and freed up one side of the bed.</p><p>In the bathroom, he stood in front of the sink, staring into the mirror like he was trying to see into another world. Part of him believed he was, since it had only been a few days with his new haircut and he was still getting used to the reflection looking back at him. It didn’t seem as foreign to him as it did when he was first introduced to it, but it still seemed like a completely different man.</p><p>He wondered what Brian would think if he saw him like this and played through all the reactions the professor would have to his new appearance in his head: <em>I love it. I hate it. As long as you like it, I like it. I wish you would’ve done something different. It looks fine. Why would you do something like that? Are you crazy?</em></p><p>There was only one way Roger would find out, so he left the room to retrieve the polaroid camera that he and Tim had sitting on the coffee table. As the blonde checked the film, his boyfriend stirred in the bedroom—causing him to tense up, as if he were an intruder in their home—but didn’t wake up. Holding his breath, Roger returned to the bathroom, closed the door behind him, and dared to take the picture. The self-developed photograph captured the lights hung on each side of the mirror, the half-closed shower curtain behind him, the very top of the sink faucet, and, of course, Roger himself—the reflection donning his new, shorter locks and the solid, white t-shirt he wore almost every night.</p><p>The blonde waited to send the photograph until the day he left for London, which explained why Brian reacted the way he did when he first saw him. He probably hadn’t received the photograph until after Roger arrived. Thinking about the blush that rose in Brian’s cheeks upon opening the envelope brought a smile to the blonde’s face, a smile that didn’t last very long—wiped away by the slam of the door as it flew into the room and the return of his two band members.</p><p>“You ready, blondie?” Sting asked, a bitter tinge to the harshly delivered question.</p><p>“Yeah,” Roger lied, tucking the photograph of himself back underneath the mug and peeling himself away from the desk. He and Stewart met one another’s gazes, and the latter flashed him a small, supportive grin before taking his seat behind his drum kit. The bassist grabbed his instrument and threw the strap over his shoulders, plucking a few notes before instructing the other two to start from the top of the set.</p><p>*****</p><p>“Thanks for doing this at such short notice, mum,” Brian said as he handed off Liz to his mother—the baby carrier in his wife’s possession.</p><p>“Anytime, dear,” she responded, bopping the infant’s nose and eliciting a giggle out of her. “You know it’s my pleasure.”</p><p>“We’re not sure how late we’ll be out, Ruth,” Chrissie chimed in, earning her mother-in-law’s attention. “Would it be a problem if she spent the night here?”</p><p>“Not at all,” she answered, the couple flashing her matching smiles. She tried to mirror their expressions but struggled to, sensing that something wasn’t right. The second that she answered the door and saw them, she could tell that something was going on. They reeked of cologne and perfume and another smell she couldn’t quite put her finger on, and the two of them couldn’t stand still for more than a second. She would’ve brought it up had she had more time to speak with them, but before she could say another word, the couple bid their farewell, kissed her and Liz on their cheeks and foreheads, and drove off.</p><p>Brian shifted his anxious gaze between the road and his wife’s lap, where she was working on rolling the two of them a new blunt on the side of her coin purse. The professor was far from being a bad driver, but that night he was driving like he did the night they brought Liz home from the hospital, with more caution than ever before. He feared that if he made one turn without his blinker or went even one kilometer over the speed limit, a cop would surely whip out of nowhere and find that not only had they violated the laws of traffic, but they were in possession of drugs—drugs that weren’t even theirs; drugs they needed to tolerate being in one another’s presence, to keep the peace between them, to keep them from confronting the problem that loomed large over their heads.</p><p>The professor didn’t want to fight, and it was clear his wife didn’t either, but he resented the fact that their relationship had gotten to this point, and even more so, the fact that he was voluntarily complicit in the temporary solution his wife had found for them. He felt even less himself than he did last year when he was questioning his sexuality. Now he was questioning his identity, entirely unacquainted with the man he had become and the things he was willing to do. The only thing that seemed certain to him now was that he wanted to be with Roger. He just didn’t know how to make it happen, especially since running away and starting over wasn’t an option either of them wanted to explore.</p><p>“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Brian asked, disturbing the silence that had fallen over the vehicle the second the doors were shut. “Are we sticking by each other’s sides or…?” His voice trailed off—the professor unable to bring himself to finish his question; unable to ask if tonight was going to be the last night they’d have to be with the ones they truly loved. Although the two of them had agreed to push it off till tomorrow, Brian couldn’t help but think about what they were going to do about their problem. <em>What would their solution be? What would it mean? Would he have to cut Roger out of his life completely and act like they never met? Pretend like he hadn’t flipped Brian’s world completely upside down?</em></p><p>A bout of uncomfortable silence filled the car, and for a moment, Brian doubted that Chrissie had even heard him, but just he parted his lips to repeat himself, she responded, “Let’s just not worry about that right now. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”</p><p>“But, Chrissie, I—”</p><p>“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” she said again, her words softer this time as she brought the stick to her mouth and sealed it with the tip of her tongue. She smoothed the special cigarette out with her fingers and smiled at her work, as though it was her pride and joy. Her eyes flickered over to Brian, and she asked, “Do you want to do the honors?”</p><p>What he really wanted was a better answer to his question, but he couldn’t deny the waning of his high, or the nagging urge to revive it. So, without giving her a verbal answer, the professor sighed and plucked the joint out of her possession, bringing it to his lips. Chrissie then dug into her coin purse—brushing the bits of the cannabis that didn’t make it into the blunt to the car floor—and pulled out a lighter, igniting a small flame and raising it to the end of the white stick protruding from Brian’s pressed lips.</p><p>The professor breathed in deep, and when he exhaled, he felt his nerves lessen and the world around him slow down. The streetlights that were flying by now seemed to stroll past, and the Christmas music that was playing quietly on the radio now sounded louder. Brian sunk into the sunny feeling that began to spread through his entire body, and before he knew it, he and Chrissie were at the concert venue, walking towards the doors where a bouncer was checking everyone’s tickets.</p><p>“Chrissie.” Brian latched onto her arm, stopping them dead in their tracks as reality hit him hard. <em>“Chrissie.”</em></p><p>“Yeah, Bri?” she murmured, taking the last drag from the joint before dropping it on the ground and crushing it with the back of her heel.</p><p>“We don’t have tickets,” he whispered worriedly, eyeing the bouncer in fears that he might’ve heard him.</p><p>She scoffed. “We don’t need tickets.”</p><p>Without further explanation, the headmistress dragged her husband to the entrance and explained to the bouncer that they were invited by the band. Brian was astonished when the man lit up, treating Chrissie like an old friend he hadn’t seen in ages. The professor couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening, but just like the car ride, it was over within the blink of an eye. The next Brian knew, he was inside the venue, with Chrissie handing him her handbag and telling him she had to go to the bathroom.</p><p>“O-Okay,” he stammered, his wife kissing him on the cheek before disappearing down a dark hallway that led in the opposite direction of where the sign mounted to the wall said the bathroom was.</p><p>Of course, Brian wouldn’t see this, standing awkwardly in place and scanning the crowd for a familiar face. He didn’t know if he was looking for someone he knew to feel more comfortable or to know it was time for him to make a mad dash for the door, but before he could decide, his eyes fell upon someone whose presence glued his feet to the floor.</p><p>“Tim?” the professor muttered to himself, his eyebrows furrowing together in confusion.</p><p>The brunette appeared just as lost as him, but as soon as his gaze met Brian’s, that lost look was replaced with a smile, a smile that scared the man he began to approach.</p><p>“Brian!” Tim exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and placing them on the professor’s back, giving him a quick hug. He took a step back and grinned even wider, looking into the taller man’s eyes. “I didn’t expect to see <em>you</em> here!”</p><p>
  <em>He did.</em>
</p><p>“Well, I didn’t expect to see <em>you </em>here,” the professor responded with a nervous chuckle. “I thought you and Roger moved to New York.”</p><p>“Oh, we did,” Tim answered, nodding his head, “But Roger and I thought it would be nice to come home for the holidays, you know, check in on Nana and see how she’s doing. Plus, he got this gig with this band that’s playing tonight, so I thought I’d swing by and show my support.”</p><p>Brian knew the brunette was lying straight through his teeth, but he spoke with such conviction that—had he not seen Roger beforehand—he might’ve believed him.</p><p>“Who’s this?” the professor asked, gesturing towards the man who trailed behind Tim as he wove his way through the crowd and lingered around as he and Brian talked.</p><p>“Oh, this is Geoff,” the brunette answered. The man just stared at Brian, an unreadable expression plastered on his face, though not a pleasant one. It was rather unsettling, sending a shiver down Brian’s back. It was only when Tim nudged Geoff in the arm that he snapped out of the daze he had fallen into and raised his hand to wave, mustering up as friendly a grin as he could. “Rog and I met him in New York,” the brunette explained.</p><p>“We work together at a bar, Rog and me,” Geoff tacked on, bringing a hand to the back of his neck and rubbing it uncomfortably.</p><p>“Ah,” Brian remarked, the tension between the three of them becoming more noticeable with each passing second.</p><p>“You know, it’s been a while since you and I had a good chat, Bri,” the brunette blurted out, using the professor’s nickname as though they were close friends and donning himself with a rejuvenated grin. “Why don’t we grab a drink before the show? Catch up?”</p><p>“Oh, I-I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Brian stuttered, holding up Chrissie’s handbag. “My wife’s in the loo, and I’m holding her bag for her.”</p><p>“Right, your wife. The one that you’re married to and have a kid with.”</p><p>The professor swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, replying uneasily, “Yeah, that one.”</p><p>Tim fell quiet, staring at Brian as the smile on his face wavered. The professor couldn’t tell what was going through his mind, but whatever it was, the brunette quickly suppressed it, and his grin perked up. “Well, I’d love to hear all about her,” he finally responded, grabbing at Brian’s hand. “Come on.” Without giving him a choice, Tim yanked him forward and pulled him into the sea of people flowing against their current—Geoff following in tow.</p><p>The professor glanced back over his shoulder, wishing that Chrissie was there, back from her trip to the loo, but little did he know that she hadn’t gone to the loo at all. Instead, she found herself in the band’s dressing room.</p><p>“Chrissie!” Stewart exclaimed as she peeked her head through the crack between the door and the threshold, jumping over the chair he’d been abusing with his drumsticks and immediately enveloping her in a tight hug. “You made it.” He leaned back and crashed his lips into hers, kissing her with a passion that doubled the size of Roger’s eyes.</p><p>“Where’s the old ball and chain? Did you leave him home?” Sting interjected from the chair he sat sideways in, separating the two and earning the headmistress’s attention. It didn’t take long for Roger to understand who the bassist meant by “the old ball and chain.”</p><p>“No, we came together,” she told him, introducing a wave of mixed emotions to the blonde she had yet to acknowledge.</p><p>On one hand, Roger was excited that Brian was going to be there, giving him someone to look at in the crowd and calm his heightened nerves. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure how Brian would react to him being on stage. The professor never told him what he wanted him to do. All he said was that he didn’t want things to be awkward, but after seeing Chrissie and the way Stewart greeted her, the blonde knew for certain that it wasn’t him the professor had to worry about—it was her.</p><p>“I told him I needed to use the loo, so we have to be quick,” the headmistress explained, shifting her lustful gaze back to Stewart’s—his eyes having yet to leave hers.</p><p>“I can do quick,” Stewart assured the headmistress, taking a piece of her long hair and wrapping it around his finger. He glanced back at his other two band members. “When are we on?”</p><p>“Second act,” the bassist answered.</p><p>“Great,” the drummer replied, flashing the stunned guitarist an excited grin before slipping out of the room with Chrissie who still had yet to notice him. Either she was too focused on her lover to care or had purposefully ignored him, but her sudden arrival and departure had drained all the color from the blonde’s face.</p><p>Roger remained silent, his mind trying to make sense of the scene that had unfolded in front of him. Never in a million years would he have guessed that the girl that Stewart told him about the night they spent together was Chrissie, and never would he have guessed that he would find himself friends with and in a band with the guy who’d been the real reason Chrissie wasn’t able to commit fully to the relationships she’d been in. Roger remembered when Timothée told him of his suspicion that there was another man involved in their marriage who wasn’t the blonde. At the time, when the blonde was still dressing himself in skirts and heels, Roger tried to convince him that it wasn’t true—thinking that’s what the money he was getting at the end of the night asked for—but now he knew that it was.</p><p>“So you knew?” the blonde finally asked, turning his head to his lingering bandmate.</p><p>Sting scoffed. “Of course I knew.” A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Just like I knew about you and her husband.” What little color was left in the blonde’s cheeks vanished, his wide eyes following the bassist as he swung his legs to the floor and stood up, adjusting his jacket. “You may not be the only Roger that exists in the world, but you <em>are</em> the only one who that song’s about.” With that and a wink, Sting left, closing the door behind him and leaving Roger alone with his thoughts.</p><p>
  <em>He knew. He always knew.</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The band had minutes until they were supposed to go on stage. Roger and Sting stood in the wings, watching as the first act wrapped up their set. They weren’t bad, but their guitarist introduced a bit of intimidation in Roger. Sting could tell by the way the blonde’s leg shook, and the way he started to bite his nails. He kept quiet, though, maintaining the tense silence that had loomed over them since their chat in the dressing room and hoping that, once Roger got on stage, the embarrassing tremor would stop.</p><p>“Hey guys,” Stewart greeted, startling Roger as he appeared out of nowhere, zipping up his fly and smoothing out his hair. “Did I miss anything?” he asked.</p><p>“Just these blokes making us look bad before we even get on stage,” Sting muttered, paying his friend no attention as he watched the band gather around the riser their drummer was perched atop—the song they played dissolving into a cacophony of sustained guitar chords, droning, overpowering bass notes, and the increasingly loud clash of cymbals and rapid pounding of the kick drum. </p><p>“Always the positive one, isn’t he?” Stewart quipped, smirking at Roger who immediately shifted his gaze to the floor. The drummer’s brows furrowed, and just as he was about to ask the blonde what was wrong, the band on stage finished their song and the crowd exploded into a deafening round of applause. The celebrated musicians brushed past the three men with as much gear as they could carry in their hands and wished them luck as the house lights went up.</p><p>The blonde pushed aside the heavy curtain hiding him and his other two bandmates and skimmed the crowd for Brian’s face, but all he could find were those belonging to that infamous group of five and Chrissie’s. The headmistress was all the way in the back, her eyes glistening as she scanned the room as well. Roger wondered if she too was looking for Brian. <em>She had to be,</em> he thought. <em>Who else would she be looking for?</em></p><p>Little did either of them know that the professor had left the building and was walking the dark streets of London with Tim and Geoff, feeling uncomfortable and out of place, like he didn’t belong.</p><p>He clutched his wife’s purse tightly to his chest and never broke his stare with the two men who were practically strangers to him, the high he still rode making him focus on the puffs of breath slipping past their lips instead of the direction in which they were headed. He was so out of it that their hushed conversation failed to register for him, and perhaps if it did, he would’ve had enough wits to turn on his heel and make a mad dash for the venue, or at least anywhere else than where the pair were planning to take him.</p><p>Back at the concert hall, Sting, Stewart, and Roger had finished setting up their instruments and mics and the house lights had gone back down. The crowd buzzed with excitement, anticipating the start of the next act while the band waited for the backstage manager’s cue to go on, when suddenly Roger—petrified—murmured, “I can’t do this.”</p><p>“What?” Sting hissed, glaring at him over his shoulder.</p><p>He shook his head, his heart racing. “I can’t do this.”</p><p>Stewart scoffed. “What are you talking about? Of course you can do this. I wouldn’t have brought you with me if I didn’t think you could.”</p><p>“No, this was a mistake,” the blonde groaned. “I should’ve never left New York. I’m not ready for this. I’m sorry.” He pushed past the bassist and drummer and escaped into the shadows. Stewart jerked forward, ready to run after him, when Sting’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the arm. The drummer looked back to see his friend shake his head in an admonishing way.</p><p>“It’s not worth it,” Sting told him.</p><p>Roger wove his way through the dark hallways, squeezing between band members and storage boxes and nearly tripping over himself before breaking out into the alleyway in the back. He began to pace back and forth, gasping for the cold air that bit at his exposed skin. Tears pricked his eyes and his chest felt full of knots. He sat himself down on the freezing ground and buried his face in his hands.</p><p>He couldn’t believe what was happening. This was all he’d ever wanted, and he blew it. He blew it, just like he blew his gig at Imperial College, and just like he blew his gig as a prostitute. Tim was right. He should’ve stuck with what he knew. Instead, he went and made a fool of himself. He’d become someone he didn’t recognize; someone he was ashamed to be, so frightened of everything that he lost sight of who he was and what he wanted. </p><p>Those two things used to be so clear to him. He was Roger Taylor; he was Liz. He wanted more than the life he and Tim had built together; he wanted to be treated better, and he got that in the university and Brian and Stewart and the band, but now that he had them, it seemed as though what he wanted wasn’t what he wanted after all. If it was, he wouldn’t be outside sitting in an alleyway, a shivering, sobbing mess.</p><p>Suddenly, the door swung open behind Roger and slammed into the dumpster, the clang of the two heavy metals masking the distant, fatal gunshot that cracked through the air. Roger’s head snapped up, his bloodshot gaze lifting in the direction of the sharp sound. He stared at the dark, brick wall that towered over him for a bit, waiting to hear it again, but all he heard was the clearing of someone’s throat, which startled him just as much.</p><p>“What the hell are you doing, Rog?” Steward asked, standing inside the threshold and looking down at him with arms folded over his chest. The question was delivered more gently than the words themselves led on. </p><p>“I-I don’t know, Stewart,” the blonde stammered, dropping his hands into his lap and sniffling. “I don’t fucking know.”</p><p>“Hey.” The drummer stepped out into the alleyway and crouched down beside him, gripping his shoulder gently. “Look, Rog, if this is about the show—”</p><p>“For fuck’s sake, it’s not about the bloody show!” Roger shrugged off Stewart’s hand and drew his knees into his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins. “It’s about everything. It’s about all the shit that’s happened since last year. It’s about—”</p><p>Another gunshot rang through the air, this time louder and attracting both men’s attention.</p><p>“What was that?” Roger whispered with wide, frightened eyes.</p><p>“Firecrackers, maybe?” Stewart guessed. “Someone dropping something?”</p><p>“You really think so?” the blonde questioned, shifting his gaze back to the drummer who seemed just as unsettled as him now.</p><p>“Yeah, I...I wouldn’t worry about it,” he replied, slowly lowering himself to the ground. The way his face scrunched up and the quick intake of air made it clear he regretted his decision, but nevertheless, he persisted. He wanted Roger to come back inside, partly because that alleyway posed a danger to both of them but mostly because he wanted to see the blonde do what he came to London for. Stewart meant it when he said that he wanted to set Roger free the first time they played together, but even he could see that something was holding him back. He just didn’t know what that something was.</p><p>“So, you said a lot’s happened since last year?” the drummer attempted to revive the conversation, breaking the weighted silence that overcame the pair.</p><p>Roger took a deep breath and let it out slowly, responding with a simple, “Yeah,” and nothing more.</p><p>“Well, what happened?” Stewart pried, a genuine quality to his inquiry.</p><p>The blonde pressed his lips together and twiddled his thumbs, thinking of what he should say, or really, how he should say it. Roger had never been a fan of opening himself up to others. It was only around Tim that he had let his guard down, but as time went on, even he proved difficult to be vulnerable around. Roger had come to realize that Tim’s interest in him was really interest in himself, listening only when his concerns pertained to him or their life together. Once he reached that understanding, he discovered it was easier to keep to himself. Everything he did became a secret, a truth shrouded in white lies. The only problem was that Tim saw right through them, knowing the blonde was holding something back from him. He just never knew what.</p><p>“Roger?” Stewart murmured, leaning forward to try and catch the guitarist’s attention.</p><p>The blonde reluctantly met the drummer’s gaze, seeing in his eyes the same interest that he noticed in Brian’s when they first met. Before the professor, Roger hadn’t had someone look at him like that in a long time, but even then, he couldn’t bring himself to come clean. There was always something holding him back.</p><p>“Rog, come on,” Stewart groaned, growing a bit frustrated. “I know something’s bothering you, and I know it’s going to keep bothering you and keep you from following your dreams if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”</p><p>He bit his lip in an attempt to further push off the inevitable, but soon he gave in and begrudgingly disclosed, “I met someone.” A bright shade of red painted his cheeks. “I met someone, and he…he messed everything up.” </p><p>“How?”</p><p>Another bout of silence filled the conversation, eventually interrupted by the blonde’s confession that, “He fell in love with me.”</p><p>“And let me guess,” Stewart smirked, “you fell in love with him too.” </p><p>Roger glanced over at the drummer, resisting the pathetic smile that dared to tug at the corners of his lips. “I wasn’t supposed to. I…I didn’t want to. It was just meant to be something fun.”</p><p>“Then what happened?”</p><p>The blonde dropped his head and explained, “Then I realized he needed me more than I needed him. He saw me as his out, and I guess I saw him as mine too, but…”</p><p>“But what?”</p><p>Roger remained quiet for a bit before replying softly, “But I’m not ready to leave everything behind.” His eyes flickered up from the frosty pavement to Stewart’s. “I’m not ready for everything to change. I thought I was, but—”</p><p>“You’re scared,” the drummer finished his sentence for him.</p><p>“Yeah,” the blonde sighed.</p><p>A blanket of silence fell over the two men, Stewart wanting to ask Roger what he was afraid of but being denied the chance by the door bursting open—this time with Sting standing in the doorway.</p><p>“Hate to ruin the moment, boys,” the bassist snarled, “but if we don’t get our arses back in there right fucking now, they’re going to bump us from the set list, and there’s a fat chance we’ll ever be able to play here again—or anywhere, for that matter.”</p><p>Stewart turned his head toward Roger, the blonde doing the same. “What do you say, Rog? Will you come back inside? I promise you, there’s nothing to be scared of in there. The worst that can happen is we play the show and have a good time.”</p><p>“Uh, no,” Sting interjected, “The worst that can happen is—”</p><p>“We play the show and have a good time,” the drummer sternly repeated himself, glaring at his friend who rolled his eyes out of annoyance and crossed his arms. Stewart returned his attention to the guitarist and asked more kindly, “So, what do you think? You think you can come back inside?”</p><p>The blonde swallowed the nervous lump that formed in his throat, his gaze shifting between the two band members before darting to the end of the alleyway where a police car sped by with its sirens blaring. Roger and Stewart shot up from the ground, watching as another flew past the opening, followed by an ambulance. Something deep inside Roger drew him towards the street, as if those police cars and ambulance were calling for him, alerting him of something he should’ve been there for; something he could’ve prevented. However, the blonde was only allowed to take a few steps before Stewart’s hand wrapped around his and pulled him inside.</p><p>With their hearts beating against their chests, the band took their places on the stage. Roger’s hand trembled as he grabbed the guitar Stewart had lent him and draped it over his shoulders, looking back at the drummer through the shadows. A smirk crawled across his face as he winked at the blonde, raising his drumstick and hitting the hi-hat, giving them the beat that would kick-start their set.</p><p>*****</p><p>“You did it, man! You did it!” Stewart shouted over the roar of the crowd as the three of them walked off stage—Roger and Sting’s guitars strapped across their backs and the bulk of Stewart’s drum kit stacked in his arms, the rest being carried by the other two. “What did I tell ya, Sting?” the drummer asked his other bandmate who seemed less impressed with the amateur’s performance. “I told you he could do it.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess he was alright,” the bassist conceded, tipping his head down to hide the small smile that curled the corners of his lips. However, his attempt was futile, for Roger had caught a glimpse of it and smiled himself.</p><p>The grin didn’t last long, though, with the blonde thinking again about what happened outside. Concerned with hitting all the right notes and chords and coming in at the right time for backup vocals, it was easy for Roger to shift his focus away from the gunshots and sirens that still rang in his ears and the flashing blue lights that flitted past him every time he scanned the crowd. Now that their set was finished, though, those memories returned with full force, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, they had to do with him.</p><p>The three men had just turned the corner—Sting and Stewart discussing how they should celebrate, or really, where—when they saw Chrissie standing outside their assigned dressing room, her hip popped out to one side, her arms folded over her chest, and her eyes sharply narrowed. </p><p>“What did you do, Roger?” she growled.</p><p>The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed together. “What are you talking about?”</p><p>“Wait, you two know each other?” Stewart interjected, looking between the two with wide eyes.</p><p>“Of course they know each other,” Sting joined the conversation, smirking. “They’re good friends.”</p><p>“Hold up, is he one of the guys…?” the drummer started to ask—aware of the agreement he and she had made long ago that allowed them to see other people while they were apart from one another—when looks of disgust crossed both Chrissie and Roger’s faces.</p><p>“What? No!” the headmistress scoffed, offended by the implication. “Jesus Christ, Stewart. Come on. Him?” She threw her hand in the blonde’s direction. “You think I’d go for <em>him</em>?”</p><p>“Hey!” Roger snapped defensively, taking a step forward and setting down the kick drum he’d been holding so he could point back at Stewart. “You might not go for me, but he did. He went for me.”</p><p>Her face went pale. <em>“What?” </em></p><p>“Yeah, <em>what?” </em>Sting repeated, angrily shoving one of the cymbals in his hands into the drummer’s arm.</p><p>“Ouch!” Stewart whispered harshly under his breath, rubbing the aching mark on his arm and glaring at the guitarist. “You weren’t supposed to say anything, Roger!”</p><p>The headmistress smacked her forehead and heaved an exasperated sigh, picking her battles wisely and dragging her fingers down her face. As her hand dropped to her side, she refocused her attention on the blonde and said tersely, “Look, I don’t want to know about whatever went on between you two. I just want to know where he is.”</p><p><em>“I don’t know who you’re fucking talking about,”</em> the blonde stressed.</p><p>“Brian!” she screamed. “I’m talking about Brian!” Chrissie took in a shaky breath and let it out slowly, explaining more calmly, “I can’t find him anywhere, and he has my purse.”</p><p>“Oh. Uh, no, I-I haven’t seen him,” Roger stammered, his cheeks growing red. He was telling the truth. He hadn’t seen Brian in the audience that night, not even once. Consider the reason he didn’t want the blonde to be there was because he and Chrissie were going to be there, it was strange and almost out of character that he was nowhere to be found.</p><p>“Who’s this Brian guy?” Stewart chimed in, more confused than ever. “And why does he have your purse?” Sting chuckled, reveling in the cataclysmic moment unfolding before him. The drummer jerked his head in the bassist’s direction and asked, “What? What’s so funny?”</p><p>“Nothing,” Sting answered, failing to suppress the grin stretched across his face. “I just...I never thought this day would come, let alone that I’d be here to watch it all go down.”</p><p>Stewart directed his gaze back to the headmistress. “What’s he talking about, Chrissie?”</p><p>Her cheeks burned with the same shade of red that inflamed Roger’s, her glossy eyes flickering between the two blondes. They finally landed on Stewart, and a remorseful, guilty look swept across on her face. “Stewart, I was going to tell you, I swear.”</p><p>“Tell me what?” he muttered, his face becoming just as pale as hers did no more than a minute ago.</p><p>A heavy silence befell the four of them, despite the next act taking the stage with an intensity that no other band had accomplished. The thunderous applause and cheers went unheard as Stewart waited for Chrissie’s answer, an answer that the other two already knew: <em>I’m married. In fact, I was married to someone named Timothée and then we got divorced so I could marry Brian. I have a kid with him, but the kid’s not his, and it’s not Timothée’s either. I know Roger because I walked in on him having sex with Timothée and tried to pay him off with a job at the university, but he ruined it by doing the same thing with Brian. Then he left, and I thought I’d never have to see again, but he came back with you and fucked things up all over again.</em></p><p>Roger slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants and glanced over his shoulder, spotting a familiar face at the end of the hallway, a face that had a similar effect on him as the police cars speeding down the street did, except this time, Stewart didn’t hold him back.</p><p>With tears daring to spill from his eyes, the blonde approached the person leaning against the wall with their arms folded over their chest and embraced them tightly.</p><p>“Oh, thank god you’re okay,” Roger mumbled into their shoulder, squeezing them to make sure they were actually there. He leaned back and looked into their eyes, trying to resist the relieved smile that made his lips quiver. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>They smirked and raised their hand, swiping their thumb across the blonde’s cheek. “What? You think I’d miss my boyfriend’s very first show?”</p><p>Roger chuckled nervously. “I just thought that, after our last talk, you were done with me.”</p><p>“That’s silly. I could never be done with you, Rog,” Tim replied, trailing his hands down the blonde’s chest and resting them on his waist, along with his gaze. “I love you, and I need you.” He glanced up at him and did something Roger never would’ve expected him to do in a million years—he apologized. “And I’m sorry I pushed you away. I was a royal fucking idiot, and I know I’ll never be able to take back what I did, but...I miss you.” He took his boyfriend’s hands in his and laced their fingers together. “I miss <em>us</em>.” </p><p>The blonde, with even redder cheeks than before, looked back at the group that had been reduced to just Sting, standing like the manipulative brunette had been and watching the two of them with a keen eye. When he noticed Roger’s gaze, he peeled himself away from the wall, grabbed the cymbals he was responsible for, and slunk into the shadows, leaving a blonde with an even worse feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was as if he knew something his bandmate didn’t, as if he knew that Tim wasn’t the only one who missed their relationship.</p><p>Roger had only been in London for a week, but every time he lied awake at night, unable to fall asleep, he would think about all the nights he spent with Tim, curled up beside him with his head resting on his bare chest and the brunette raking his fingers through his hair, planting soft kisses on the top of his head, along the side of his face, on the corners of his mouth, and—eventually—his lips. He would think about the warmth that transferred from his boyfriend’s body to his, that made him feel better no matter what transpired over the course of the day, even if it was something that happened between them. Lying next to him, in his arms, was a feeling like no other that Roger experienced with Tim, and until he met Brian, the blonde didn’t realize that what he was feeling was love—true, unadulterated, genuine love.</p><p>“What do you say about coming home with me tonight?” the brunette suggested, giving a slight tug on his boyfriend’s shirt and stealing his attention back. “We can celebrate like old times, just the two of us. Nana’s out with Johnny, and Geoff’s on his way back to the States, so we have the whole damn castle all...to...our...selves.”</p><p>With each syllable, he pulled the blonde closer, and by the last one, they were but a breath apart, their chests touching and their hearts beating in sync. The two stood that way for what seemed like an eternity, dancing the thin line that—if crossed one way or the other—would determine how the rest of the night was going to play out. Roger knew this and so did Tim, so when the brunette leaned in, acting on the shared impulse once and for all, the blonde took a stumbled step back and stammered, “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea, Tim.”</p><p>He laughed. “God, you sound just like him.”</p><p>“Like who?”</p><p>Tim bit his lip, reluctant to answer his boyfriend’s question, aware that if he did, he would only implicate himself in the crime that was moments away from shattering the blonde’s world. So, instead, he smirked and murmured, “Come on. I want to make it up to you.” He didn’t specify what for as he slipped away from Roger and began to saunter backwards down the hallway, taking slow, calculated steps and holding his clean hands out to the blonde, hoping he would take them like he used to. However, Roger stayed back, watching as the distance between him and the brunette grew. It became increasingly clear to Tim that he wasn’t ready to give into temptation, trying hard to remind himself of how far he’d come, and how much he’d lose by following his instincts.</p><p>The brunette, stopping in the middle of the hallway, heaved a sigh and placed his hands on his hips. “Come on, Rog, let me show you how sorry I am. Please.”</p><p>“I thought I didn’t know what sorry was,” the blonde sneered, recalling the unpleasant conversation they had over the phone not long after he arrived in London.</p><p>“You don’t,” Tim quipped. “That’s why I need to show you.”</p><p>Roger’s cautious step forward and his timid question of, “And then what?” brought a smile to the brunette’s face.</p><p>“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” he said, crossing his arms. “But that’s never going to happen if you just stand there all night.”</p><p>The blonde found himself paralyzed by the conflict that was tearing him apart. He couldn’t help but be drawn towards Tim, his devotion to the man withstanding every trial and tribulation their relationship had gone through, even the one that was yet to come. However, he couldn’t deny his feelings for Brian, no matter how much they terrified him. In reality, though, both prospects were scary in their own right. It was either go down memory lane or venture into uncharted territory, and he couldn’t decide which was worse.</p><p>“Earth to Rog,” Tim called, snapping Roger out of the daze he’d fallen into. “Are you coming with me or not?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roger’s tired eyes fluttered open, the bright light that shone through the tall window in front of him making it difficult to see. He groaned and grabbed at the pillow beneath his head, yanking it out from underneath him and folding it over his face. He lay there for a moment or two, trying to fall back asleep but unable to as he began thinking about the pillowcase pressed against his cheeks—particularly how soft it felt and how thick it was. It couldn’t have been the old pillow Mary had loaned him for his stay at hers and Freddie’s place, thin and scratchy from use. That meant it belonged to someone, and he’d only felt a fabric this soft when—</p><p>He tipped his head back and looked at the pillow, immediately noticing that it was draped in satin, just like he was. Dread suddenly washed over the blonde, and with a racing heart, he glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes falling upon Tim’s face, peaceful in slumber and illuminated by the sunlight peeking through the curtains.</p><p>“Shit,” Roger murmured, tossing the pillow over the bed’s edge and listening to the clatter of old, empty beer bottles as the piece of décor collided with them like a bowling ball. He fell over on his back and folded his hands over his flat stomach, staring at the vaulted ceiling and racking his brain for memories of the night before.</p><p>The last thing he remembered was the two of them standing outside the concert venue, waiting for a cab. He remembered the knot that twisted his stomach, and the apprehensive look he gave Tim that encouraged the brunette to graze his hand across his cheek and lean in, kissing him for the first time since he arrived in London. At first, the blonde resisted the coercive gesture, trying his hardest to remain still and unengaged, but habit soon kicked in. He dropped his jaw just a little more and allowed gravity to bring their bodies closer together, letting Tim in even though he knew it was wrong. He couldn’t help himself.</p><p>Roger dropped his head to the side and stared at his boyfriend, contemplating what to do next. How was he going to explain to Brian that he’d messed up? That he did something he knew he shouldn’t have done but did anyways? He already let the professor down by hesitating to make the commitment to him that he wanted, but it would break Brian’s heart if he were to find out that, instead of being with him on his big night, he’d chosen to be with Tim.</p><p>The blonde felt rotten for what he’d done. He’d made such a point of wanting to break away from the life he’d forged with the brunette and leave everything behind that made him him, yet there he was, back in bed with Tim.</p><p>He began to wonder if it was fate that kept bringing them back together. Perhaps Brian wasn’t meant to be at the show last night, and perhaps he wasn’t meant to run away with Roger that fateful night a year ago. The blonde even said that all they were supposed to have was that night. The few moments they had outside of that night, maybe they weren’t meant to happen; maybe that’s why Roger kept finding himself with Tim. It was the universe’s way of reminding him that Brian was never meant to be anything more than a distraction; something to shake things up a little before they fall back into place like they should be.</p><p>With a heavy sigh, the blonde rolled over and swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting on the edge and running his hand along the silk sheets. Their softness reminded him of Tim’s offer. <em>We could do this every day, you know—wake up together in a bed like this every morning, come home to a house like this every night</em><em>…</em><em>No more phone sex, no more clients, just you and me and this big arse house. We can do whatever we want.</em> At the time, Roger thought it sounded absolutely ridiculous, but now, he wasn’t so sure.</p><p>A loud moan emanated from the back of his throat, and he covered his face with his hands, slumping forward and resting his elbows on his knees. The blonde’s frustration woke the brunette behind him and brought a small grin to his face. He stretched his stiff arms up into the air, attracting his boyfriend’s attention with a low groan.</p><p>“‘Morning, gorgeous,” he mumbled, dropping his hands to his stomach and turning his head towards the blonde.</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the mattress, walking away and searching the floor for his clothes.</p><p>“Oh, come on!” Tim whined, sitting up on his elbows and asking, “What did I do this time?”</p><p>“You know what you did,” the blonde grumbled, stepping into his discarded pair of pants and pulling them up to his waist.</p><p>The brunette couldn’t hide the blush that surfaced in his cheeks, believing that his boyfriend had finally figured out what happened last night. For all he knew, Roger had stayed up all night trying to put the pieces together. It wasn’t that hard if he really thought about it, but for the sake of their relationship, Tim hoped he hadn’t jumped to the conclusion that would end it all.</p><p>“It wasn’t me who actually did it, you know,” he said defensively. “I just—”</p><p>“I don’t want to hear it, Tim,” Roger cut him off, zipping his fly and pushing the button through its hole. He snatched the shirt off the ground next, slipping it over his head and sticking his arms through the sleeves. As soon as he yanked it down over his chest, he knew it wasn’t his, but for now it would do. Tim could always wear his shirt when he decided to get dressed. They used to share clothes all the time, at least Tim’s.</p><p>“But Roger, I think you should know—”</p><p>“What did I just say?” the blonde snapped, turning towards the vanity that sat across from the bed and teasing his disheveled hair in an attempt to make it look like he hadn’t just spent an entire night in the sack.</p><p>The brunette bit his lip in deep thought. He had to be upset with him for something, and if it wasn’t for what <em>really</em> happened last night, then what was it? What did he do?</p><p>“I need to leave for a bit,” Roger blurted out, meeting the brunette’s gaze through the mirror. Tim remained as still as a statue, though, determined to figure out what it was that the blonde believed he did. </p><p>If it had something to do with the night they shared, he couldn’t think of what. All he did was kiss him. It was Roger who pulled Tim into the cab they hailed; it was Roger who led Tim inside his grandmother’s home and up to the room the brunette had taken residence in; and it was Roger who pushed Tim onto the bed and ripped both their clothes off before straddling him and running his hands down his boyfriend’s chest, capturing his lips with his and lowering himself down onto him. The brunette just followed the blonde’s lead, and since when was following someone’s lead wrong?</p><p>“Did you hear me?” Roger asked, spinning around to face Tim and crossing his arms. “I said I need to leave for a bit.”</p><p>The brunette shook his head, snapping himself out of the daze he’d fallen into, and replied, “And go where?”</p><p>The blonde shrugged. “I don’t know. Anywhere but here.”</p><p>A chuckle slipped past Tim’s lips. “Figures.”</p><p>“What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>“It means I know what you’re doing,” he muttered, rolling over to the side of the bed that Roger previously occupied and sticking his hand into the nightstand drawer. </p><p>“And what is that?”</p><p>“You’re trying to run away from me and convince yourself that you still don’t want to be with me.” He pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes—either ones that he smuggled in or ones that his grandmother had tucked away for herself—and picked one out. “But it’s obvious you do. I mean, for god’s sake, Rog, you spent last night with me. Not him. <em>Me</em>.” He struggled to create a flame with the Zippo, but once he did, he brought it up to the end of the white stick and breathed in deep, exhaling a stream of smoke towards the ceiling. He tipped his head back down and met Roger’s teary-eyed gaze. “When are you going to stop running from the truth?”</p><p>The blonde shot his trembling index finger in his boyfriend’s direction. “Never.”</p><p>“Fine.” The brunette took another drag. “Keep lying to yourself. It’s not going to change anything. You and I both know you’ll be back here by the end of the day, and guess what?" He blew smoke in the blonde's direction and smirked. "I’ll be right here waiting for you, just like always.”</p><p>Gritting his teeth and clenching his hands into fists—so tight that he nearly drew blood—Roger darted out of the room and ran downstairs. His fast and heavy footsteps echoed throughout the vast, empty home in search of the garage. Pushing in nearly every door on the first level, he finally came across the extension that housed three cars in pristine condition, cars that Roger could only dream of driving, let alone owning. At the far end sat a fourth car, one that the blonde was more familiar with—the one that Nana drove him to the university in, and the one she pulled up to their old flat in countless times.</p><p>With his heart pounding in his ears, Roger reached out and grabbed one of the four sets of keys hanging on the wall, sticking it into each of the locks until he found success with the Aston Martin parked next to the old beater. He ripped open the door and slid into the driver’s seat, letting out a shaky sigh and sinking back into the leather seat that felt like it hadn’t ever been sat in before. He ran his hands over the glossy steering wheel and pressed his lips together, contemplating if he should just go back inside and apologize for overreacting to something he should’ve known was going to happen sooner or later. Tim told him he would back, and that’s exactly what happened. He came back.</p><p><em>Not this time, </em>he told himself, stepping out of the vehicle and grabbing the rope tied to the garage door. He tugged it back and the door rode its track into the ceiling, flooding the garage with the brisk sunlight that shone down on all of London. Roger’s heavy breaths manifested into the cold air as he broke out into the blinding glare, making his way to the front. He hugged himself for warmth and stared at the gate that closed Nana’s house off from the rest of the world, trying to remember how he got through it the night before. </p><p>Of course, he couldn’t, and so decided to strap himself in, throw on the pair of sunglasses that were perched atop the dashboard, and slam his foot down on the gas pedal, busting the luxury car out of its cage and plowing it straight through the gate. The iron doors burst open, hitting the brick walls with a loud clang and luring Tim out of bed—the bare-assed brunette rushing up to the window and watching as the Aston Martin sped away, its driver buzzing with adrenaline.</p><p>A trip that normally took half an hour only lasted fifteen minutes as Roger wove in and out of lanes of traffic and whipped carelessly around corners, flying up to the curb outside of Freddie and Mary’s place. The screech of the brakes as he came to an abrupt stop echoed through the neighborhood. Checking himself once more in the rear-view mirror, the blonde ran a hand through his messy hair and took a deep breath before getting out of the car.</p><p>Roger slammed the door shut and looked at the house in front of him, a terrible feeling forming in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know if it was because he wasn’t ready for what lay behind that front door, or because he hadn’t had something to eat since before the concert last night. Maybe the adrenaline had worn off, the spontaneity in his actions suddenly less exciting. Whatever it was, he pushed through it, approaching the front door with a growing sense of unease he couldn’t ignore. By the time he’d wrapped his hand around the doorknob, he’d gotten himself so worked up, he couldn’t turn it. He only stood there, staring at the door in front of him, terrified of what was on the other side.</p><p>Just then, the door swung in, pulling Roger in with it. The blonde stumbled over the threshold and looked up over the clear rim of the brown-tinted sunglasses he’d borrowed to see Freddie towering over him. He had no time to respond before his friend took him in his arms and gave him a tight squeeze.</p><p>“Is...Is everything okay, Fred?” the blonde stammered, his gaze traveling to the kitchen where Mary stood in the doorway, dressed in one of the robes Roger swore was Freddie’s and holding a saucer and hot cup of tea in her hands. There was a look in her eyes that the blonde had never seen before—pity, genuine pity, but why?</p><p>Freddie leaned back and cupped Roger’s cheeks in his hands. “I’m so sorry, Rog.”</p><p>“What for?” he asked, not understanding what his friend was talking about.</p><p>“Chrissie called,” Mary chimed in softly, bringing the cup up to her lips and drinking from it so that she didn’t have to elaborate, or really, be the bearer of bad news.</p><p>“W-Why?” Roger shifted his worried attention back to the dark-haired man who still hadn’t let go of him, afraid that if he did, the blonde would crumble to pieces. </p><p>Freddie pulled the blonde back in for another bone-crushing hug before whispering in his ear, “Brian’s gone, Roger.”</p><p>
  <em>This was it. This was what Roger was afraid of; what caused the knot in his stomach. </em>
</p><p>“What do you mean he’s gone?” he whispered back, staring at Mary and matching her glistening eyes.</p><p>“He’s dead.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tim paced back and forth in the foyer of his grandmother’s home, waiting for Roger’s return. However, it wasn’t until the afternoon that the front door clicked open. The brunette—slumped on the staircase with Roger’s shirt on his back and an empty, expensive bottle of liquor gripped loosely in his hand—lifted his head and watched as the blonde closed the door behind him. He spun around and his darkened eyes fell upon Tim, who pulled himself up from the steps and staggered to the side. He would’ve lost his balance had he not gripped the railing and steadied himself.</p><p>No words were exchanged between the two before the blonde charged forward and pushed the brunette back down on the stairs, falling down with him. There was barely any time for Tim to react before Roger swung at him, again and again, the brunette blocking the blows with his arms crossed over his face. His screams went unheard as anger boiled inside the blonde, drowning out his boyfriend’s pleas for him to back off. Fury had completely overcome Roger, and it would’ve only escalated had Tim not gotten the chance to flip them over and pin Roger to the stairs, taking advantage of the slowing and softening nature of the punches as the blonde expelled all his energy.</p><p>“Let go of me!” the blonde shouted breathlessly, thrashing under his boyfriend’s grip.</p><p>Tim laughed, the attack sobering him up. “What, so you can hit me again?”</p><p>Roger’s fight lasted for a minute or two longer before he heaved a defeated sigh and relaxed against the marble steps, his head dropping to the side and the tears he thought he’d finished shedding resurfacing, rolling down his cheek in a jagged stream.</p><p>“You deserve it,” he whispered, biting his lip to keep it from quivering.</p><p>The brunette remained quiet, continuing to hold down the blonde whose chest rose and fell with each shaky breath he took.</p><p>“Why’d you do it?” Roger asked, glancing up at the brunette hanging over him.</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>The blonde chuckled sadly. “You know what.”</p><p>A shameful blush washed Tim’s cheeks red. “No,” he gritted his teeth. “I don’t. That’s why I asked.”</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes and pushed his boyfriend off him, the brunette tripping over his feet and falling back on his ass. He watched with wide, worried eyes as the blonde sat up and grabbed the stair he was on, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightened. He lifted his head and met Tim’s gaze, saying after a long pause, “Brian’s dead, Tim, and I know it was you who killed him.”</p><p>“But it wasn’t me!” The brunette scrambled to his feet. “I swear!”</p><p>The blonde mirrored his actions. “Bullshit!”</p><p>Roger knew his boyfriend and, being familiar with the lengths the brunette had proved himself willing to go in order to keep them together, it was only logical that Tim was responsible for killing Brian. He couldn’t think of anybody who hated the professor as much as his boyfriend did—not even Chrissie or Timothée.</p><p>“No, Rog, that’s what I was trying to tell you this morning!” Tim cried, daring to eliminate the distance between him and Roger and even go so far as to grab his upper arms to give him a slight shake. “<em>I </em>didn’t kill him. I just…”</p><p>“You just what?”</p><p>“I just knew you were going to leave me,” Tim muttered. “And I had to do something.”</p><p>“So you <em>killed </em>him?”</p><p>“I didn’t kill him!” the brunette insisted, the crimson in his cheeks intensifying as he murmured, “Geoff did.”</p><p>“Geoff did,” Roger repeated in disbelief, a flatness to his voice.</p><p>“We went out one night after you left, and we got talking and...and he made me realize that, if I didn’t do something now, I was going to lose you forever.”</p><p>“So you killed Brian.”</p><p>“Well, at first I was just going to come here and hope I could talk you into coming back to New York with me, remind you of what we had, but then you came over and we had that fight and—”</p><p>“—you decided the only way to get me back was to kill Brian,” the blonde bitterly finished the sentence.</p><p>“I was angry!”</p><p>“Goddammit, Tim!” Roger screamed, shoving the brunette back and turning away from him. He pushed his fingers through his hair and exhaled sharply. “Fuck.” He kicked the bottom step out of frustration, pacing back and forth a few times before kicking the stair once more and plopping down on it, burying his face in his hands and screaming, “Fuck!”</p><p>Tim sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, what do we do? Turn me in? Turn Geoff in? He’s not here anymore. He went back to New York last night.”</p><p>“We can’t,” the blonde murmured, dragging his fingers down his cheeks and looking up at his boyfriend. “If we turn you in—if we turn <em>either </em>of you in—we’d be turning me in too, because once you tell them why you did what you did, how you and Geoff came to know each other, what really started it all...you’re not the only one who’s going to be locked away.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“Why do you think?” Roger snapped, causing Tim to cowardly avert his gaze elsewhere. The blonde tipped his head down as a blanket of silence fell over the couple. With no sounds to distract him, Roger's mind drifted back to his ideas about what happened the night before, in the alleyway where the professor was found with a bullet to both the head and the heart, and soon enough, the blonde was in tears again. </p><p>Tim frowned at the pitiful sight, a rare moment of compassion drawing him towards the broken blonde, who he took a seat beside and hooked an apologetic arm around. Instinctively, Roger collapsed into his side, crying into the fabric of his own shirt. The brunette rested his head against his boyfriend’s and held him closer, feeling the sobs rack through the slightly younger man’s body as he mourned the loss of the professor.</p><p>That was the last moment that the two of them would share so intimately, becoming distant not long afterwards. In the weeks that would follow, Tim and Roger would sleep in the same bed and sit at the same table for dinner, but it felt as though an ocean still separated them. Even being in the same room made them feel like they were countries apart, and for all Tim knew, they always would be.</p><p>*****</p><p>“Are you sure you can’t come?” Roger asked as he struggled to fix the tie around his neck, glancing back at Tim who sat slumped in the armchair by the window, puffing a cigarette. “I could really use you there.”</p><p>The brunette plucked the white stick from his lips and blew a steady stream of smoke to the side. “I told you, it wouldn’t feel right. I barely knew the guy.”</p><p>“You knew him enough to have him killed,” he mumbled.</p><p>Tim rolled his eyes at the blonde’s snide comment and turned his attention out the window, murmuring before taking another drag from his cigarette, “You know I can’t go, Rog.”</p><p>“Well, I wish you could,” Roger muttered, giving up on the tie and crossing the room to snatch the white stick out of the brunette’s possession. Tim’s jaw dropped in silent protest as his boyfriend drew a smoke from it and walked out of the room—cigarette still in hand. Without looking back, he descended the big staircase, and the click of the dress shoes he borrowed—same as the suit he was wearing—echoed off the walls enclosing the large entryway. He made his way into the garage and snatched the same set of keys from before, hopping in the Aston Martin and driving away—this time without destroying the gate. In fact, the gate hadn’t been touched since Roger first burst through it, nor had the dented front of the luxury vehicle, because Nana had yet to return from her little excursion with Johnny. The boys didn’t know when she would be back, or even <em>if </em>she would be back. </p><p>Had the things that transpired over the course of the past few weeks—and really, the past year—not happened, the two would’ve enjoyed the opportunity to spend some time alone together at the mansion they found themselves living in, but as it was, their situation was temporary. They had to decide what they were going to do next, either stay in London and find a new place or go back to New York and move back into their old apartment, both options requiring Roger to revert back to the life he desperately wanted to get away from but couldn’t.</p><p>That decision would have to wait, though, with Brian’s funeral taking precedence in the blonde’s mind.</p><p>He arrived at the church, the same one that Liz had been christened in, and swung the vehicle into the carpark. As he stepped out, he leaned against the car and stared at the sacred building that anticipated his entrance. Roger had never been one for religion, swearing that it had a tendency to fuck people up, and he never would’ve pegged Brian as a religious man, but now it made perfect sense—why he acted the way he did around the blonde; why he stuck by Chrissie’s side even when she betrayed him not just once, but multiple times. </p><p>As Roger took a final drag from the cigarette that had burned down to a stub, he wondered if things would’ve been different if the professor was more like him, unburdened by the weight of judgment from those both holy and not. Maybe then they wouldn’t have had a year between them, a year that changed it all.</p><p>The blonde dropped the cigarette to the asphalt and smothered it with the toe of his shoes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants and venturing into the forbidden place of worship. </p><p>Roger froze at the back of the church, staring at the small but recognizable group of people scattered about. They were all involved in their own conversations that introduced a low hum to the church’s stale atmosphere, so no one really noticed his arrival, but Roger sure took notice of the people there. </p><p>He first saw Chrissie with whom he could only assume was Liz in her arms, talking with two people that the blonde had only ever seen once before—in a photograph that sat on the mantle of Brian’s fireplace. They’d aged a bit since the last time he saw them, but they weren’t nearly as happy as they were in that moment captured on film. The woman was in tears, clutching onto a handkerchief with shaky hands while the man beside her rubbed her back comfortingly, keeping a straight face that looked like it would break at any moment as he scanned the room in avoidance of the half-opened casket prominently displayed at the altar.</p><p>Verging on tears himself, Roger shifted his gaze to the other attendees, seeing a lot of familiar faces from the university, including those belonging to Paul, the janitor, as well as Dominique, Debbie, Anita, Veronica, John, and a student he only knew by association—Richie, the party guy the girls had compared him to when he dragged himself through the halls of Imperial College after receiving a beating from Tim. He even noticed that Sting and Stewart were there, standing off to the side and looking just as out of place as the blonde felt. </p><p>“You know, he wasn’t that bad of a guy,” someone blurted out, startling Roger. The blonde turned his head and saw Timothée standing beside him, arms crossed over his chest and lips curled upward into a smirk. He glanced over to meet the blonde’s gaze and added, “I just wish he would’ve taken my advice.”</p><p>Roger’s brows furrowed together. “When on earth did you give him advice?”</p><p>“At a bar, a couple weeks ago.” The headmistress’s ex-husband reached into his coat and pulled out a flask, twisting the top off and taking a quick swig from it. “He was there with that friend of yours—Freddie was his name?” He extended the thin, metal canister out to the blonde, watching as he debated with himself over whether he should accept the offer. Ultimately, he did, drinking from the flask and handing it back to its owner who explained, “Anyways, I told him to stay as far away from her as he could. ‘Guess he didn’t listen to me.”</p><p>An awkward silence interrupted the conversation, with Roger unsure of how to respond to the offhanded comment except for <em>he didn’t listen to me either</em>, but he didn’t feel it was appropriate to talk about the professor like that, especially here and now.</p><p>After a long pause, the blonde finally blurted out, “So, what are you doing here, Timothée?”</p><p>“Oh, Chrissie invited me,” her ex answered, skipping no beats as he stole another sip of his booze.</p><p>“And you said yes?”</p><p>Timothée shrugged his shoulders. “Well, not at first, but my afternoon cleared up and it’s been a while since I dressed up for something, so I thought: what the hell? Let’s see what she’s up to.” He scoffed. “I should’ve known she’d still be kissing everyone’s ass and acting like she’s some Mary Magdalene.” Roger smirked at his old client’s comparison. “What about you? How’d she rope you into coming?”</p><p>The blonde laughed. “She didn’t.”</p><p>“Then why—” Timothée didn’t even have to finish his question to know the answer. “You’re kidding. <em>Him?”</em></p><p>“Him.”</p><p>“Since when?”</p><p>“Last year.”</p><p>The man shook his head in disbelief. “Of course.” He leaned in and, with his finger pointed towards the headmistress who wandered away from Brian’s parents and gravitated towards the guy she’d been seeing behind both Brian’s and Timothée’s backs, whispered, “Does <em>she </em>know?”</p><p>Roger nodded his head. “Oh yeah.”</p><p>Timothée playfully smacked the blonde on the arm with his free hand and sneered, “You’re terrible, Roger.”</p><p>“I guess I am.”</p><p>The headmistress’s ex-husband smiled, and the gesture must have been infectious, for the blonde mirrored the facial expression but with red cheeks. They stood at the back of the church and shared a few more sips from the flask before Timothée asked, “So, how long do you think you’ll be in London for?”</p><p>“Dunno,” Roger answered, swirling around the last bit of booze inside the metal container. “I really only came here for a gig.”</p><p>“‘Must’ve been a big spender for you to come all the way back from New York,” Timothée replied, mistaking the true nature of the gig that lured Roger back to the place he wanted to get away from. The blonde watched with furrowed brows as his old client dug into his coat once more and extracted a business card, swapping it out with the flask in his hand and suggesting slyly, “Why don’t you give me a call before you leave, yeah? I promise I’ll make it worth your while; pay you twice as much as they did—three times, even.”</p><p>Roger chuckled nervously. “Oh, no, I—”</p><p>“Just do it,” Timothée cut him short, patting him on the shoulder and walking out. The blonde’s eyes trailed after him, a pathetic glimmer of hope in them as he waited for Chrissie’s ex-husband to turn around or look over his shoulder or <em>something </em>that would let him know he was joking. However, Timothée kept his back to him the entire time, the door clicking shut and directing Roger’s attention to the card in his hands. He stared at the digits printed on the small, thick piece of paper and bit his lip, tempted to make the call even though he knew he shouldn’t. <em>He couldn’t.</em></p><p>Roger guiltily shoved the card inside his pocket and started down the aisle, approaching the casket with slowing steps. By the time he reached the first pew and had a better view of the lifeless professor, he could barely move. The reality of the situation had finally hit him.</p><p>At the back of the church, drinking with Timothée, it didn’t seem real. It wasn’t Brian lying in the casket at the front, and it wasn’t his funeral that he was at. However, now that he wasn’t at the back and the slight buzz from the alcohol had begun to wear off, all of this was very real. Brian <em>was </em>in that casket, and this <em>was </em>his funeral.</p><p>The truth proved too much for the blonde to handle, his heart pounding against his chest and his vision starting to blur, but when he turned on his heel to leave, he was stopped yet again.</p><p>“Hello, Roger,” the person standing before him greeted with as little enthusiasm as a person could muster. </p><p>“Hey, Chrissie,” he replied just as flatly, tugging uncomfortably at his suit jacket.</p><p>“Where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>The blonde’s cheeks grew red. “I-I was just about to go, actually.”</p><p>“You haven’t even paid your respects yet, though,” the headmistress argued, keeping her voice level and her eyes locked on his.</p><p>Roger glanced down at the infant sleeping in Chrissie’s arms, looking almost as peaceful as the man she believed was her father. He blinked away the tears that formed in his eyes and returned his attention to the headmistress, confessing through gritted teeth, “I can’t do this, Chrissie.”</p><p>She scoffed. “And you think I can?” She tipped her head towards the coffin. “Come on. We’ll go together.”</p><p>Chrissie denied Roger the chance to escape by grabbing his hand with her free one and guiding him to the altar, bringing him right up to the casket where the professor lay still, his hazel eyes hidden behind closed lids and his cold hands folded over his unmoving chest. His skin was ghostly pale, and his lips were drawn into a straight line. Roger couldn’t bear to look at Brian once he saw the small mark on his forehead where the undertaker had tried to mask the bullet hole that matched the one on his chest, though that one was covered by the button-down he’d been dressed in.</p><p>“I left him for one second,” the headmistress murmured. “One bloody second, and he gets himself killed.”</p><p>Roger slowly turned his head back to her, eyebrows knit together. “What are you talking about? You were gone the entire first act.”</p><p>“You know you couldn’t have been with him, right?” she snapped, cutting to the chase and meeting his resentful gaze with glossy eyes. “I mean, you must’ve known it was never going to work out between the two of you.”</p><p>The blonde dropped his head in shame, unwilling to admit that he did.</p><p>“I needed him, Roger,” Chrissie growled, adjusting her grip on her daughter. </p><p>“Oh, come on. The only thing you needed him for was to keep everyone from finding out how much of a whore you are,” Roger replied, his voice carrying throughout the large hall and attracting the attention of just about everyone as he added, “Your kid’s not even his! I mean, who the fuck even is her father?”  </p><p>Her eyes flickered over to that infamous group, and Roger’s gaze followed, landing on the lanky student whose guilty eyes instantly shifted to his feet. It was then that Roger put two and two together and saw for himself the truth that had been hiding in plain sight.</p><p>“Shit,” he muttered. “Is John—”</p><p>“You’re missing the point here, Roger,” Chrissie murmured, returning her attention to the casket and then him. “I needed Brian, and he needed me.” She turned towards the blonde and eliminated what little space existed between them, whispering with poison on her tongue, “<em>He didn’t need you</em>.”</p><p>“Well, I think both him and Timothée would beg to differ,” the blonde bit out before receiving a slap across the face, the sharp smack amplified by the vaulted ceilings and drawing everyone to the altar. </p><p>“Whoa!” Stewart exclaimed, getting between the pair and separating them. “What the hell’s going on here?”</p><p>Rubbing his stinging cheek, Roger shot a glare at Chrissie and answered the drummer grimly, “I was just leaving.” He met Stewart’s concerned gaze before brushing past him and heading back down the aisle with a growing sense of urgency. He pushed through the church doors and rushed down the steps, adrenaline pumping through his veins and blinding him to his surroundings, so much so that he passed by Freddie and Mary without even acknowledging their presence.</p><p>“Roger?” Freddie called out, but to no avail. “Roger!” he shouted, stopping the blonde in the middle of the parking lot. He kept his back to him and his fiancé, though, hiding the tears that threatened to roll down his cheeks. Freddie dared to join the blonde’s side and, placing hands on his upper arms to make them face one another, asked worriedly, “Darling, what’s going on?”</p><p>“She didn’t deserve him,” he croaked, shaking his head and falling into his friend’s chest with tears spilling from his eyes. “She didn’t fucking deserve him.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Here,” Tim muttered as he walked into the spare bedroom that he and Roger still shared, holding a dress from Nana’s heyday in one hand and a pair of matching heels in the other. “Try this on.”</p><p>It had been a few weeks since Brian’s funeral, and though the sun shone brightly that day, it had yet to rise again, with winter taking over London shortly after the burial. Clouds loomed high in the sky, and there was a bitter chill that nipped everyone who dared to venture outside. That chill had seeped its way into Roger and Tim’s relationship too, reverting the pair to the dynamic they adopted when the blonde first mentioned leaving New York to go back home, except this time, there was an additional aspect to their curt exchanges—Roger’s anticipated rendezvous with Timothée.</p><p>The blonde—wearing nothing but a pair of knickers that could barely pass for such and perched at the vanity, leaned forward so he could get a better look in the mirror as he dragged the dark, cosmetic pencil underneath his eyelid—glanced over his shoulder. His wide eyes fell upon the garment that appeared as though it hadn’t seen the light of day since 1929. “Where’d you find that?”</p><p>“Buried deep within one of Nana’s closets,” his boyfriend answered casually, tossing the shoes to the floor and joining Roger at the vanity, standing behind the blonde and looking at him through the reflective glass. Tim smirked, grateful to see his old friend returning. The same couldn’t be said for Roger, who resented the person looking back at them. He hadn’t seen her since New York, probably because he didn’t resemble her as much as he used to. However, she was slowly coming back, bit by bit. All she needed was a bit of makeup, a nice, form-fitting outfit, and a wig, and it would be like she never left.</p><p>“You couldn’t find anything else?” the blonde mumbled, unimpressed by the shapeless, drop-waisted, chiffon and silk number.</p><p>Tim quickly snapped out of the daze he’d fallen into and sniggered, “Sure, but none of it would look good on you.”</p><p>“How would you know?” he asked with furrowed brows.</p><p>“Because I’ve been dressing you since we were teenagers and I know a thing or two about what sells.” The brunette pinched the blonde’s cheek and missed the elbow shot back in retaliation by just a hair, sliding to the side and saying, “Now get up. We need to see if this fits.”</p><p>Roger rolled his eyes and picked himself up out of the chair, watching as his boyfriend squatted and held the dress out for him to step into. He placed his hands on the brunette’s shoulders and put one foot in after the other, standing as still as he could as Tim brought the layered dress up over his waist and his chest. He slipped his arms through the thick straps and turned around, staring at the reflection that twisted his stomach in knots while Tim zipped him up and met his gaze through the mirror.</p><p>“Like a glove,” he whispered into his ear, his soft, lowered voice sending a shiver down the blonde’s back.</p><p>Roger squirmed beneath the brunette’s hands that found their way to his hips and reclaimed his seat in front of the vanity, shuffling through the borrowed makeup in avoidance of his boyfriend’s analytical stare.</p><p>“We’re missing something,” Tim pointed out, rubbing his chin as if the gesture would help him determine what that something was sooner. The blonde only looked up at him, refraining from making any comments that would worsen his situation. For all he knew, his snide remark about missing a feathered headpiece or a string of pearls would result in him looking and feeling even more ridiculous than he already did. He hated himself for wishing that he hadn’t left everything behind when he and Tim left for America, but he felt absolutely silly wearing Nana’s vintage frock. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t Liz.</p><p>
  <em> Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. </em>
</p><p>“I got it!” the brunette exclaimed, bolting out of the room before Roger could convince him otherwise.</p><p>Left alone by himself, the blonde heaved a sigh and sunk into the chair, tipping his head back so that he wouldn’t have to see the person sitting across from him. The blonde already felt guilty enough for making the call to Timothée the day after the funeral, but when it came time to take on the role he fought so hard to retire, his guilt multiplied. He knew what he was doing was wrong; he knew he should’ve thrown that little card away the second the church doors closed behind Chrissie’s ex, but he didn’t. Instead, he succumbed to what felt more comfortable and accepted the old client’s offer.</p><p>Roger came up with a thousand excuses to justify his actions—he was lonely, he could use the money, he wanted to be good at something again, he needed the distraction—but none of them made the blonde feel better about being right back where he started.</p><p>Just then, three forceful knocks echoed through the massive house, drawing the blonde out of the slump he’d started to slip into and turning his head towards the door, expecting to hear either Tim’s hurried footsteps or his booming order for his boyfriend to go see who it was. When silence was all he heard, Roger dragged himself out of the room and down the stairs, pulling the door in and tensing up when he saw who stood on the other side.</p><p>“Oh my god,” the visitor greeted, their eyes wide then narrow. “Roger?”</p><p>“Stewart,” he replied, embarrassedly crossing his arms over his chest—partly in a pathetic attempt to hide his getup and partly in turn to keep himself warm from the cold gusts of wind blowing their way into the foyer. “What are you…How did you find me here?”</p><p>“Um, that Freddie guy told me you’d been staying here the past few weeks,” the drummer revealed, trying his best not to stare at the cross-dressed man standing before him but failing miserably. Shaking his head, he looked into the blonde’s eyes and asked, “I’m sorry. Did I interrupt something?”</p><p>“No, you’re fine,” Roger murmured, unable to hide the blush that colored his cheeks a flattering shade of red as he explained, “You just caught me in the middle of getting ready.”</p><p>“What for?” Stewart replied, the corners of his lips twisting upward into an amused grin as he thought up a few answers himself.</p><p>The drummer was only a little disappointed when Roger settled on, “An appointment,” figuring the less he shared, the better. However, he should’ve known that, with Stewart, less was never enough.</p><p>“What kind of appointment?”</p><p>“Doctor’s,” the blonde blurted out, regretting his decision as soon as the word slipped past his lips but knowing it was too late to say something else.</p><p>“Doctor’s, huh?”</p><p>The red in his cheeks turned a deep crimson. “Yes,” he drawled.</p><p>Stewart nodded his head in understanding, biting his tongue to keep from sharing that Chrissie had already told him all about Roger’s former profession, explaining it in fervent detail in relation to her connection with him. It didn’t shock him, thinking back on the night they spent together in New York, but in recollection of their conversation that same night—about not wanting to be in the situations you find yourself in and how all it takes is a bit of courage and some help from your friends to get out of them—Stewart kept that piece of information to himself, opting instead to say, “Well, doctor’s appointments aside, I stopped by because I wanted to tell you something—two things, actually.”</p><p>Roger raised a suspicious brow.</p><p>“Sting wants to take the band in a different direction, and by different direction, I mean he wants to try out another guitarist,” he rattled off, wanting to lift the weight that had been bearing down on his shoulders ever since the bassist introduced him to Andy, the guy Sting wanted to replace Roger with. He seemed nice enough, but Stewart was more willing to give Roger a chance than Sting was—the latter believing that the blonde couldn’t keep up with them in the long run. So, he found them someone who could.</p><p>The blonde scoffed, falling against the threshold with his arms still crossed. “Fair enough.”</p><p>“Wait, you’re not—”</p><p>“Angry?” Roger shrugged. “No. I never really wanted to be a guitarist, anyways. I just wanted a reason to come back home.”</p><p>Stewart laughed. “Fair enough.”</p><p>“So, what’s the second thing you wanted to tell me?” the blonde asked, hoping to wrap up the conversation sooner rather than later. After all, he <em> was </em>only wearing a dress; he didn’t have the warm jacket or the thick scarf that Stewart did. </p><p>“Oh, right.” The drummer reached into his jacket and pulled out a notebook, handing it over to Roger and smiling. “Chrissie was going through some of Brian’s things the other day and came across this. She was going to throw it out, but I started looking through it and saw that it had the song Sting was talking about that one night, the one supposedly about you, so I thought you might want it.”</p><p>Roger stared at the worn-down spiral with glossy eyes. The last time he saw that notebook was the night Brian came to Freddie’s to ask him not to play the show. </p><p><em> It’s how I know </em> , the professor said when the blonde asked him how he knew they really wanted to be with each other, pulling out the spiral and showing him the song he’d been working on. <em> It’s not finished yet </em>, he explained before excitedly contributing more to it after Roger proposed the idea that it was easier when the roles were reversed; when Brian was the one who didn’t know what he wanted and he did.</p><p>What bothered Roger the most was that he was still unsure about what he wanted, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Brian would still be here had he been more certain in the decisions he was presented with. It had only been about a month, but the blonde often thought about where he would be if he hadn’t been so adamant about not running away again; if he had been willing to take just one more risk and, as Brian put it, do what he’d been meaning to for the last year. He thought about where they would’ve gone, what they would’ve done, and how they would’ve felt. It had to be better than where he was and what he was doing and how he felt now. It had to be.</p><p>“Well, are you just going to stare at it or actually take it?” Stewart chuckled, stretching his naked hand outward, the notebook trembling along with it from the cold.</p><p>Roger blinked away the few tears that began to prick his eyes and took the book into his possession. “Sorry. Thanks, Stewart.”</p><p>“Anytime, man.” The drummer grinned, punching him playfully in the arm. The blonde winced only a little, trying to repress the suddenly resurfaced memories of the much harder punches he’d received in the past. The reaction luckily went unnoticed, masked by the brief, awkward moment that filled the gap in their conversation and was cut short by Stewart’s earnest request of, “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright?”</p><p>Roger nodded his head, clutching the notebook tight against his chest.</p><p>Stewart flashed him another smile, though it faltered, as if he knew this was going to be the last time they’d cross paths. Roger knew it too, but instead of saying goodbye, the drummer left him with an optimistic yet painful, “See you later, buddy.”</p><p>“See you later, buddy,” the blonde repeated softly after Stewart was out of earshot, shutting the door behind him and falling against it, the notebook heavier than before.</p><p>He stayed there for a good while before dragging himself back to the bedroom and taking his place back at the vanity, where he looked down at the spiral-bound book in his lap and bit his lip. He dared to lift the cover that was one flip away from falling off and leafed through the unfamiliar pages consumed by scribbles, both heavy and light and masking the lyrics the professor was unsatisfied with. He stopped when he got to the page with his song written on it, lightly trailing his fingers over the haunting words.</p><p>Roger’s hand froze at the bottom of the page, his eyebrow arched. Something didn’t look right. </p><p>He read over the words again and again, trying to figure out what was missing. “When I was you and you were me and we were very young. Together took us nearly there, the rest may not be sung. So still the cloud it hangs over us, and we’re alone, but some day, one day—”</p><p>Then it clicked.</p><p>
  <em> It’s not finished yet. </em>
</p><p>He frantically scanned the room for something to write with, something to finish the song with. That’s when his eyes locked on the stick of eyeliner he’d left on the vanity, and the corner of his lips twitched upward.</p><p>The blonde grabbed the waxy pencil and scratched the final line in, muttering as he jotted it down, “<em> We’ll...come...home.” </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Author's Note</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Hey guys!</b>
</p><p>
  <b>I just wanted to say thank you so much for reading this story. I loved seeing all your comments, and it meant so much to me that a lot of you enjoyed it :)</b>
</p><p>
  <b>That being said, I think I might've been just as sad as you were when it came to an end. I'm honestly not ready to let go of these characters, and so what I've decided to do is start a new story with them! </b>
</p><p>
  <b>The story is called "He Makes Me," and it's up right now both here and on Wattpad. It's an adaptation of an original story of mine that I tried writing a while back but never finished called "Dollhouse," so the relationships between the characters are going to be a little different, as is the setting, but I'm really excited about it!<br/></b>
</p><p>
  <b>Thanks once again, and if you decide to check out "He Makes Me," I hope you like it!</b>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>